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MICHAEL   AND    HIS   LOST  ANGEL 


75  17  4 


•The 


MICHAEL  AND  HIS 
LOST  ANGEL 

A  PLAY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


BY 


HENRY  ARTHUR  JONES 

AUTHOR   OF   "the   tempter,"    "  THE    CRUSADERS,"    "THE   CASE   OF 

REBELLIOUS   SUSAN,"    "  THE   MIDDLEMAN,"   "  THE   DANCING 

GIRL,"    "  JUDAH,"    "the    MASQUERADERS,"    "  THE 

TRIUMPH   OF  THE   PHILISTINES,"   ETC. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1905 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  May,  1896.      Reprinted 
November,  1905. 


J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


?R. 


LI  r 

ITATfT  TEAC 


fyX  ^v  HkWTA  »A«aAfrA 


PREFACE 


Michael,  though  styled  by  Milton  "of  celestial 
armies  prince,"  has  found  his  sword  unequal  to  the 
task  of  combating  the  well-ordered  hosts  of  dark- 
ness, 

By  thousands  and  by  millions  ranged  for  fight. 

The  author  of  "Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel"  seeks 
accordingly  in  print  consolation  for  the  rebuffs  he 
has  experienced  upon  the  stage.  Some  comfort  in 
the  midst  of  defeat  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that 
the  gods  themselves  fight  vainly  against  prejudice 
and  stupidity.  I  am  not  in  the  least  seeking  to  set 
aside  the  verdict  pronounced  by  the  majority  of 
"  experts "  upon  Mr.  Jones's  latest  play  and  subse- 
quently accepted  if  not  ratified  by  the  general  public 
which  would  not  be  induced  to  see  it.  All  I  seek 
to  do  is  to  deal  so  far  as  I  am  able  with  the  adverse 
influences  to  which  it  succumbed,  and  to  explain 
why  I  think  it  a  fine  work  and  in  many  respects  a 
triumph. 


vi  PREFACE 

The  misfortunes  of  "  Michael  and  his  Lost  Angel " 
attended,  if  they  did  not  anticipate,  its  conception. 
Like  Marina  in  Pericles  it  had  at  least 

as  chiding  a  nativity 

as  play  has  often  encountered.  Before  it  saw  the 
light  a  war  had  been  waged  concerning  its  name. 
That  the  name  itself  involved  as  some  seemed  to 
think  a  gratuitous  insult  to  any  form  of  religious  con- 
nection or  was  even  ill  chosen  I  am  not  prepared 
to  grant.  Michael  is  not  a  scriptural  character,  and 
his  functions,  civil  and  militant,  and  his  place  in  the 
celestial  hierarchy  are  assigned  him  by  uninspired 
writers.  But  for  the  use  made  of  him  in  art  and  by 
Milton  it  is  doubtful  whether  his  name  would  be 
familiar  enough  to  the  general  public  to  provoke  a 
discussion.  A  discussion  was,  however,  provoked  and 
with  a  portion  of  those  present  the  verdict  was  pro- 
nounced before  the  piece  had  been  given.  An  open- 
ing scene,  meanwhile,  in  which  the  very  raison-d'etre 
of  the  play  is  found,  an  indispensable  portion  of  the 
motive  began  too  soon  and  was,  through  the  noise 
and  disturbance  caused  by  late  arrivals,  practically 
unheard.  The  difficulty  thus  caused  was  never  quite 
overcome,  and   the   nature   of  Michael   Feversham's 


PREFACE  vii 

offence   and   the   value   of  his   expiation   were   both 
partially  misunderstood. 

That  the  display  of  human  passions  in  a  sacred 
edifice  and  the  lavish  use  of  ecclesiastical  ceremonial 
might  cause  offence  I  could  have  conceived,  had 
there  not  been  the  immediately  previous  proof  of 
the  success  of  another  play  in  which  the  very  words 
of  the  Inspired  Teacher  are  used  with  a  background 
of  pagan  revelry  and  a  lavish  and  superfluous  dis- 
play of  nudity  of  limb.  Paul  of  Tarsus  is  surely  a 
more  recognisable  personage,  and  one  more  closely 
connected  with  Christian  faith  than  a  nebulous  being 
such  as  Michael.  While,  however,  the  slight  banter 
in  the  title  of  Mr.  Jones's  play  and  the  reproduction 
of  the  rather  florid  pageant  of  the  highest  Anglican 
service  has  in  a  work  of  earnest  purpose  and  mas- 
terly execution  wounded  sensitive  consciences,  the 
presentation  as  vulgar  as  inept  of  a  portion  of  the 
holiest  mysteries  of  religion  has  been  received  with 
sacerdotal  benediction  as  well  as  with  public  ap- 
plause. Foreign  opinion  concerning  English  hypoc- 
risy and  prudery  finds  frequent  utterance,  and  our 
witty  Gallic  neighbours  have  excogitated  a  word  they 
believe  to  be  EngUsh  and  take  as  the  cant  phrase 
of  the  Briton,  schoking.    We  do  at  times  our  best 


viii  PREFACE 

to  furnish  foreigners  with  a  justification  for  their 
views ;  and  in  the  present  case  at  least,  we  have 
shown  our  capacity  to  "  strain  at  a  gnat  and  swallow 
a  camel." 

That  the  author  has  overburdened  his  work  with 
dialogue  is  shown  by  the  result,  since  a  play  that 
the  public  will  not  have  is  naturally  a  play  unsuited 
to  the  public. 

vSome  measure  of  the  blame,  to  my  thinking,  almost 
the  whole  of  the  blame,  rests  with  the  audience.  In 
seeking  to  interest  his  world  in  a  series  of  duologues 
Mr.  Jones  has  credited  it  with  a  knowledge  of  dra- 
matic art  and  an  interest  in  psychology  it  does  not 
possess.  His  experiment  is  analogous  to  that  under- 
taken in  France  by  the  younger  Dumas.  A  premiere 
of  Dumas  was  one  of  the  most  fashionable  and 
intellectual  of  Parisian  "  functions."  With  ears  sharp- 
ened to  acutest  attention  the  Parisian  public  listened 
not  only  to  dialogue  thrice  as  long  as  any  Mr.  Jones 
has  attempted,  but  also  to  monologue  of  the  most 
didactic  kind.  In  the  case  of  Victor  Hugo  again 
there  is  more  than  one  soliloquy  of  length  abso- 
lutely portentous.  These  things  have  never  wearied 
a  public  art-loving,  theatre-loving,  before  all  appre- 
ciative of  Hterary  subtlety  and  conscious  of  what  are 
the  true  springs  of  dramatic  interest. 


PREFACE  ix 

At  the  moment  when  these  lines  are  written,  the 
London  playgoer,  not  perhaps  of  the  most  fashion- 
able class,  receives  with  delight  a  scene  in  which  a 
hero  swims  to  the  rescue  of  injured  innocence, 
which  a  generation  ago  established  the  fortunes  of 
a  dramatist  and  a  theatre.  I  refer,  of  course,  to  the 
Colleen  Bawn  of  Dion  Boucicault,  which  has  once 
more  been  revived.  The  rescue  scene  in  this  hit 
exactly  the  sense  of  the  English  public  and  fulfilled 
its  ideal.  For  a  year  or  two  afterwards  the  intellect 
of  our  dramatists  was  exercised  as  to  the  means  by 
which  virtue  imperilled  could  be  rescued,  whether 
by  climbing  a  tower  or  swinging  by  a  tree,  or  by 
any  other  contrivance  involving  the  risk  of  a  broken 
neck.  Those  days,  happily,  are  past.  We  have  not, 
however,  made  great  progress  in  our  education,  and 
seem  yet  to  have  to  learn  that  the  most  teUing 
drama  is  the  psychological,  and  that  dialogue  moves 
us,  or  should  move  us,  more  than  incident.  Othello, 
in  some  respects  the  most  poignant  of  tragedies,  is 
nearly  all  duologue,  the  gradual  poisoning  of  the 
Moor's  mind  by  lago  being  one  of  the  most  tre- 
mendous scenes  ever  attempted.  The  Greeks,  the 
great  art-loving  people  of  antiquity,  banished  in 
tragedy  all  incident  from  the  stage,  and  in  this  re- 


X  PREFACE 

spect  have  been  copied  by  the  great  school  of  French 

classicists. 

So  far,  without  any  very  direct  purpose  or  inten- 
tion, I  have  been  posing,  apparently,  as  the  apolo- 
gist for  Mr.  Jones's  play.  Underneath  this,  perhaps, 
some  few  may  have  traced  a  design  still  less  defi- 
nite of  apologising  for  the  English  public.  Nothing 
is  further  from  my  intention  than  to  proffer  an 
excuse  for  what  I  regard  as  a  fine  and  most  mov- 
ing drama.  For  myself,  I  can  only  say  that  rarely 
indeed  have  my  entrails  been  stirred  by  more 
forcible  pathos,  my  attention  been  rapt  by  more 
Inspiriting  a  theme,  and  my  intellect  been  satisfied 
by  dialogue  more  natural,  appropriate,  and,  in  the 
highest  sense,  dramatic.  In  one  respect,  I  am  dis- 
posed at  times  to  agree  with  some  of  Mr.  Jones's 
censors.  The  logic  of  events  which  brings  about 
the  scene  in  the  island  is,  perhaps,  not  sufficiently 
inexorable.  That  Mrs.  Lesden  is,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  hopelessly  compromised  when  she  spends 
a  night  alone  on  the  island  with  her  lover,  I  will 
concede.  I  can  conceive,  however,  Michael  treat- 
ing her  with  the  more  delicacy  therefor,  abandoning 
to  her  his  house,  and  spending  a  summer  night,  no 
enormous  penalty,  in  the  open  air,  on  the  seashore. 


PREFACE  xi 

This,  however,  only  means  that  the  overmastering 
influence  of  passion  over  Michael  has  not  been 
fully  exhibited  in  action. 

With  Mr.  Jones's  previous  works  —  with  "Judah," 
"The  Crusaders,"  "Saints  and  Sinners"  —  "Michael 
and  his  Lost  Angel"  is  connected  by  strong,  albeit 
not  too  evident,  links.  The  bent  of  Mr.  Jones's 
mind,  or  the  effect  of  his  early  environment,  seems 
to  force  him  into  showing  the  struggle  between 
religious  or  priestly  training,  and  high  and  sincere 
aspiration,  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
those  influences,  half  earthly,  half  divine,  of  our 
physical  nature,  which  sap  where  they  cannot  esca- 
lade, and,  in  the  highest  natures,  end  always  in 
victory.  There  is  nothing  in  Michael  Feversham  of 
the  hypocrite,  little  even  of  the  Puritan.  Subject 
from  the  outset  to  priestly  influences,  and  wedded 
to  theories  of  asceticism,  the  more  binding  as  self- 
imposed,  he  has  come  to  look  upon  the  renegation 
of  the  most  imperative  as  well  as,  in  one  sense,  the 
holiest  functions  of  our  nature  as  the  condition  of 
moral  regeneration.  Sic  itur  ad  astra.  Crime, 
generally,  he  holds  as  condemnable,  but  murder 
and  theft  are  things  aloof  from  the  human  nature 
with  which  he   has   to   deal.     They  are  exceptional 


Xii  PREFACE 

products  of  diseased  organisations  or  untoward  sur- 
roundings. Not  one  of  his  flock  that  he  is  con- 
ducting peacefully  and  unwittingly  to  Rome,  is 
coming  to  him  to  own  in  confession  to  having 
stolen  an  umbrella  from  a  rack  or  a  book  from  a 
stall,  still  less  to  having  slain  his  enemy  on  a  secret 
path.  Had  such  confession  been  made,  it  would 
have  been  an  episode  of  comparatively  Httle  inter- 
est, a  mere  skirmish  in  the  war  he  constantly  sus- 
tains against  the  forces  of  evil.  Uncleanness,  on 
the  other  hand,  as  he  elects  to  describe  it,  is  the 
one  offence  against  the  higher  life,  in  regard  to 
which,  whether  as  concerns  inward  promptings  or 
outside  manifestation,  it  behooves  him  to  be  ever 
armed  and  vigilant.  Accepting  this  theory,  which, 
though  subversive  of  the  highest  and  most  obvious 
aims  of  nature,  is  still  held  by  a  considerable  sec- 
tion of  civilised  humanity,  the  conduct  of  Michael 
wins  a  measure  of  sympathy.  In  imposing  upon 
Rose  Gibbard  the  unutterably  shameful  and  humili- 
ating penance,  the  nature  of  which  reaches  us  from 
the  ferocious  Calvinism  of  the  Puritan  rather  than 
from  the  gentler  moral  disciphne  of  the  Romish 
church,  to  which  he  is  hastening,  Michael  is  thor- 
oughly  sincere   and   conscientious.     He   believes   it 


PREFACE  xiii 

the  best,  nay,  the  only  way  to  save  her  soul  and 
restore  her  to  the  self-respect  and  dignity  of  pure 
womanhood.  So  much  in  earnest  is  he  that,  when 
Mrs.  Lesden  propounds  the  theory,  which  among 
the  virtuous  and  generous  wins  acceptance,  that  "  it 
is  nearly  always  the  good  girls  who  are  betrayed," 
he  resents  the  utterance  as  a  levity,  not  to  say  a 
profanity.  A  character  such  as  this  is  not  only 
conceivable,  it  is  well  known.  There  is  nothing  in 
its  psychology  to  scare  the  unthinking  or  alarm  the 
vulgar.  In  the  humiliation  which  Michael  is  him- 
self compelled  to  undergo,  I  find  at  once  the  vin- 
dication of  a  morality  immeasurably  higher  and 
more  Christian  than  that  taught  by  any  of  the 
churches,  and  a  soul  tragedy  of  the  most  harrowing 
description.  My  words  will  to  some  appear  irrever- 
ent. I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  not 
I  who  said  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  "  Qui 
sine  peccato  est  vestrum,  primus  in  ilia  lapidem 
mittat " ;  and  again,  "  Nee  ego  te  condemnabo. 
Vade  et  jam  amplius  noli  peccare." 

That  a  nature  such  as  that  of  Michael  would  be 
likely  to  provoke  the  curiosity  and  interest  of  an 
Audrie  Lesden,  few  will  contest.  Vain,  frivolous, 
passionate,   mutinous,    sceptical,   defeated,    unhappy, 


xiv  PREFACE 

with  the  sweet  milk  of  true  womanhood  curdled  in 
her  breast,  Audrie  Lesden  sets  herself  the  task  of 
breaking  through  the  defences  of  this  "  marble  saint." 
She  succeeds.  Under  her  temptations  the  icy  image 
thaws.  That  she  herself  thaws  also,  is  a  matter  of 
which  she  scarcely  takes  cognisance.  In  her  mood 
of  irritation  and  defiance  what  happens  to  herself 
is  a  matter  of  comparative  indifference.  She  has 
abandoned  her  positions  and  called  in  her  reserves, 
concentrating  all  her  forces  for  a  combat,  in  which 
victory  is,  if  possible,  more  disastrous  than  rout. 

Let  us  take  then  the  position.  A  man  resolute 
as  he  thinks  in  the  maintenance  of  a  standard  of 
scarcely  possible  and  wholly  undesirable  purity,  a 
woman  bent  at  first  in  wantonness  of  spirit  upon  his 
subjugation,  but  finding  as  she  progresses  that  her 
heart  is  in  the  struggle,  and  that  instead  of  being 
engaged  in  a  mere  sportive  encounter  she  is  playing 
for  her  life,  her  all.  Here  are  the  materials  for  a 
tragedy,  and  a  tragedy  is  the  outcome.  The  idea 
is  happy,  the  execution  is  superb,  and  the  result  is 
a  play  that  must  be  pronounced  so  far  Mr.  Jones's 
masterpiece,  and  that  is  in  effect  one  of  the  worthi- 
est and  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  putting 
apart  the  financial  result  and  judging  only  from  the 


PREFACE  XV 

standpoint  of  art,  one  of  the  most  successful  dramas 
of  the  age.  For  the  first  time  the  dramatist  has 
divested  himself  of  all  adventitious  aid  or  support, 
swimming  boldly  and  skilfully  on  the  sea  of  drama. 
The  melodramatic  devices  on  which  he  has  leant  dis- 
appear, the  sketches  of  eccentric  character  by  which 
he  strove  to  fortify  past  stories  have  vanished.  A 
tale  of  ill-starred  love  is  told  with  simple  downright 
earnestness,  simplicity,  and  good  faith.  Not  a  char- 
acter unnecessary  to  the  action  is  introduced,  not 
a  word  that  is  superfluous  or  rhetorical  is  spoken. 
Free  from  obstruction,  unpolluted  and  undefiled,  a 
limpid  stream  of  human  life  and  love  flows  into  the 
ocean  of  defeat  and  death. 

In  some  respects  the  loves  of  Michael  Feversham 
and  Audrie  Lesden  seem  to  take  rank  with  the 
masterpieces  of  human  passion,  if  not  with  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  with  Cupid  and  Psyche,  with  Paul  and 
Virginia,  and  shall  I  add  with  Edgar  of  Ravenswood 
and  Lucy  Ashton,  at  least  with  Helen  and  Paris, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  and  Manon  Lescaut  and  the 
Chevalier  des  Grieux.  Just  enough  of  fatefulness 
as  well  as  of  human  wilfulness  is  there  to  add  the 
crowning  grace  of  tragedy  by  showing  man  the  sport 
of  circumstance.     Michael  dwells  on  this  point  and 


xvi  PREFACE 

finds  "  a  curious  bitter  amusement "  in  tracing  out  the 
sequence  of  events.  "  The  hundred  Httle  chances, 
accidents  as  we  call  them,  that  gave  us  to  each 
other.  Everything  I  did  to  avoid  you  threw  me  at 
your  feet.  I  felt  myself  beginning  to  love  you.  I 
wrote  urgently  to  Uncle  Ned  in  Italy,  thinking  I'd 
tell  him  and  that  he  would  save  me.  He  came. 
I  couldn't  tell  him  of  you,  but  his  coming  kept 
Withycombe  [the  boatman]  from  getting  your  tele- 
gram. I  went  to  Saint  Decuman's  to  escape  from 
you.  You  were  moved  to  come  to  me.  I  sent 
away  my  own  boat  to  put  the  sea  between  us  :  and 
so  I  imprisoned  you  with  me.  Six  years  ago  I  used 
all  my  influence  to  have  the  new  lighthouse  built 
on  Saint  Margaret's  Isle  instead  of  Saint  Decuman's, 
so  that  I  might  keep  Saint  Decuman's  lonely  for 
myself  and  prayer.  I  kept  it  lonely  for  myself  and 
you.  It  was  what  we  call  a  chance  I  didn't  go 
to  Saint  Margaret's  with  Andrew  and  my  uncle. 
It  was  what  we  call  a  chance  that  you  telegraphed 
to  my  boatman  instead  of  your  own.  If  any  one 
thing  had  gone  differently  — "  Even  so.  In  this 
world,  however,  "  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet " 
and  the  most  commonplace  and  least  significant 
of    our    actions    may    have    world-reaching    results. 


PREFACE  xvii 

"  Oh,  God  bring  back  yesterday "  is  the  despairing 
cry  which,  since  the  beginning  of  time,  has  been 
wrung  from  human  Ups. 

The  scene  on  the  island  seems  to  me  admirable 
in  management.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  care  for 
Audrie's  confession  concerning  the  conquest  of  the 
heart  of  "a  cherub  aged  ten,"  though  that  leads  to 
the  very  humorous  illustration  of  his  sister's  trea- 
son. Michael's  own  confession  on  the  other  hand 
of  his  one  flirtation  with  Nelly,  the  tender  oscula- 
tion never  repeated,  and  her  farewell  words  "  Good- 
night, Mike "  serve  a  distinct  purpose  in  preparing 
Michael's  ultimate  subjugation.  "  She  called  you 
Mike  ? "  says  Audrie  with  some  surprise  and  more 
bitterness.  He  is  human  then,  this  austere,  ice- 
bound man  only  just  beginning  to  relent  to  her. 
His  lips,  those  lips  for  which  she  hungers,  have 
been  pressed  upon  a  woman's  face,  and  he  has 
had  a  boy's  name  by  which  another  woman  has 
dared  to  call  him,  a  name  her  own  lips  tremble  to 
frame.  She  is  long  before  she  does  frame  it  aloud. 
The  idea  of  that  woman  however  dwells  in  her 
mind,  and  its  full  influence  and  the  extent  of  her 
surrender  are  shown  when  at  what  might  be  quite, 
and  is  almost,  the  close  of  the  third  act   she   looks 


xviii  PREFACE 

back  and  says,  "  Listen  to  this.  Whatever  happens, 
I  shall  never  belong  to  anybody  but  you.  You 
understand?  I  shall  never  belong  to  anybody  but 
you,  Mike,"  All  this  is  supreme  in  tenderness  and 
truthfulness  and  is  the  more  dramatic  and  convinc- 
ing on  account  of  its  simplicity. 

So  it  is  throughout  the  play.  There  is  not  a 
moment  when  the  eifort  after  rhetorical  speech  inter- 
feres with  or  mars  the  downright  earnestness  and 
conviction  of  the  language  and  the  fervour  of  the 
underlying  emotion.  The  love-making  so  far  as  we 
are  permitted  to  see  it  is  on  the  woman's  side. 
Hers  are  the  raptures,  the  reproaches,  the  protesta- 
tions. Only  in  the  moment  of  supreme  difficulty  or 
defeat  is  Michael  tortured  into  amorous  utterance, 
and  then  even  it  is  the  idea  of  responsibility  and 
possession  that  weighs  upon  him.  The  deed  is 
done,  he  belongs  to  the  woman  with  whom  he  has 
sinned,  the  past  is  ineffaceable :  no  expiation  can 
alter,  even  if  it  may  atone.  He  is,  moreover,  im- 
penitent in  the  midst  of  penitence,  fiercely  glad, 
fiercely  happy,  in  what  he  has  done,  ready  to  face 
all  tribulation,  loss,  and  reproach,  rather  than  sacri- 
fice the  burning,  maddening,  joyous  knowledge  of 
his  guilt.     This  is  the  spirit  in  which  love  in  strong. 


PREFACE 


XIX 


austere,  unemotional  natures  manifests  itself.  "All 
for  love  or  the  world  well  lost  "  is  the  title  Dryden 
gives  his  alteration  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  All 
for  love  or  heaven  well  lost  is  the  phrase  Mr.  Jones 
in  effect  puts  into  the  lips  of  his  Michael,  a  phrase 
used  not  for  the  first  time,  and  savouring  of  blas- 
phemy or  sanctity  according  to  the  point  of  view 
of  the  audience. 

There  are  perhaps  higher  ideals  of  love.  What 
dramatist  or  preacher  has  said  anything  finer  than 
the  words  of  the  great  cavalier  lyrist :  — 

I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honour  more. 

One  of  the  best  known  of  the  Tudor  dramatists, 
Habington,  says  :  — 

He  is  but 
A  coward  lover,  whom  or  death  or  hell 
Can  fright  from  's  Mistress. 

The  enormity  of  Michael's  sacrifice,  the  very  un- 
pardonableness  of  his  offence,  constitute  the  sweetest 
savour  to  him  as  to  her.  To  her  it  brings  an  in- 
toxicating, a  delirious  triumph,  to  him  a  sense  how 
much  he  must  hug  to  himself  and  cherish  a  posses- 
sion secured  at  so  fearful  a  price. 


XX  PREFACE 

It  is  perhaps  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
Michael's  madness  that  the  sin  once  committed  is 
not  repented.     Landor  talks  of 

Modesty  who  when  she  flies 
Is  fled  for  ever. 

This  is  true  of  other  things  beside  modesty.  Not 
seldom  it  is  true  of  virtue.  Sin  is  our  sad  portion, 
let  us  make  the  best  of  it.  If  we  may  not  have  a 
"  stately  pleasure-house "  of  love,  let  us  get  what 
shelter  we  may  and  at  least  cling  close  together 
while  the  winds  of  censure  rebuke  and  the  rains  of 
scandal  chill.  This  is,  of  course,  what  Audrie  would 
suggest.  "  My  beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  his." 
What  matter  concerning  other  things,  what  other 
thing  is  there  to  matter?  Not  so  Michael.  Lead 
me  back,  he  says,  to  the  ways  of  peace  and  purity. 
Let  us  march  hand  in  hand  to  the  throne  of  for- 
giveness. There  is  no  such  throne,  says  the  moralist 
and  the  priest  within  him.  "  Can  one  be  pardoned 
and  retain  the  offence?"  he  asks  with  Claudius, 
and  the  answer  extracted  from  his  conscience  is  a 
negative.  After  her  death,  a  death  for  which  he  is, 
as  he  knows,  mainly  responsible,  he  abandons  all 
struggle,  resigns  his  volition  and  his  being  into  the 


PREFACE  xxi 

hands  of  a  church  that  demands  implicit  obedience 
and  pardons  no  questioning  of  its  decisions  and 
decrees,  and  taking  upon  himself  monastic  vows 
enters  permanently  a  cloister. 

If  this  is  not  according  to  the  present  reading  of 
the  word  "tragedy,"  I  know  not  where  tragedy  is  to 
be  sought.  It  may  be  that  the  subject  is  one  that 
cannot  with  advantage  be  set  before  the  public  with 
the  fierce  and  brilliant  illumination  of  stage  presen- 
tation. Compare  however  the  method  of  treatment, 
earnest,  severe,  resolute,  unfaltering,  with  that  which 
was  adopted  by  novelists  dealing  with  clerical  trials 
and  offences  of  the  sort  from  the  time  of  Diderot  to 
that  of  L'Abbe  Michon,  the  reputed  author  of  "  La 
R^ligieuse,"  "  Le  Maudit,"  and  other  works  of  the 
class. 

Once  more  I  repeat  that  "  Michael  and  his  Lost 
Angel "  is  the  best  play  Mr.  Jones  has  given  the 
stage  and  is  in  the  full  sense  a  masterpiece.  It  is 
the  work  of  a  man  conscious  of  strength,  and  sure 
of  the  weapons  he  employs.  Whether  the  stage 
will  know  it  again  who  shall  say?  It  will  at  least 
take  rank  as  literature  and  in  its  present  shape  ap- 
peal to  most  readers  capable  of  having  an  indepen- 
dent opinion  and  clearing  their  minds  of  cant. 


xxii  PREFACE 

From  the  figures  as  to  the  receipts  which  are  pub- 
lished it  appears  that  a  full  chance  of  recording  its 
opinion  was  scarcely  given  the  public.  On  this  point 
I  am  not  prepared  to  speak.  Such  rebuff  as  the 
play  encountered  was,  I  fear,  due  to  the  precon- 
ceived attitude  of  some  representatives  of  public 
opinion  rather  than  to  any  misunderstanding  be- 
tween Mr.  Jones  and  the  public.  Mr.  Forbes  Rob- 
ertson's performance  of  the  hero  was  superb  in  all 
respects.  The  refusal  of  the  part  of  the  heroine  by 
Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell,  its  destined  exponent,  was 
so  far  a  calamity  that  it  fostered  the  belief  that  there 
was  something  immoral  in  the  part.  In  other  re- 
spects I  cannot  regard  the  substitution  for  that 
actress  of  Miss  Marion  Terry  as  a  misfortune. 

JOSEPH   KNIGHT. 
London,  12th  February,  1896. 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

This  play  was  produced  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre 
on  the  15th  January,  1896,  and  was  withdrawn  on 
the  25th,  the  management  suddenly  announcing  the 
last  three  nights  in  the  morning  papers  of  the  23d. 
An  impression  has  therefore  prevailed  in  the  public 
mind  that  the  piece  was  a  great  financial  failure. 
So  far  was  this  from  being  the  case  that  the  receipts 
for  the  first  ten  nights  during  which  it  was  played 
were  more  than  ;^ioo  higher  than  the  receipts  for 
the  first  ten  nights  of  my  play  "The  Middleman," 
which  proved  so  great  a  financial  success  in  England 
and  America.  The  takings  during  the  brief  run 
at  the  Lyceum  were  as  follows  :  — 


January  15. 

/209 

^s. 

6d. 

January 

21. 

£  99    9^. 

11^. 

16. 

128 

9 

3 

« 

22. 

114  14 

4 

"         17. 

123 

12 

3 

<< 

23- 

121     18 

0 

1 8. 

203 

5 

5 

« 

24. 

146    12 

7 

"        20. 

99 

9 

4 

« 

25- 

231      7 

0 

The   great  number  of  sympathetic   letters    that  I 
have  received  about  the  play  and  its  cordial  recep- 


xxiv  AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

tion  on  the  later  nights  of  the  run  show  that  it 
created  a  deep  impression  on  those  who  did  see  it, 
and  encourage  me  to  hope  that  I  may  introduce  it 
again  to  the  English  public  under  happier  auspices. 
HENRY   ARTHUR  JONES. 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

The  Reverend  Michael  Feversham. 

Sir  Lyolf  Feversham. 

Edward  Lashmar  (Father  Hilary). 

Andrew  Gibbard. 

The  Reverend  Mark  Docwray. 

Withycombe. 

Audrie  Lesden. 

Rose  Gibbard. 

Mrs.  Cantelo. 

Fanny  Clover.  ♦ 

Villagers,  Congregation,  Choristers,  Priests. 


ACT   I. 

The  Vicarage  Parlour  at  Cleveheddon. 
(^Four  months  pass ^ 

ACT   II. 

The  Shrine  on  Saint  Decuman's  Island. 
i^Two  nights  and  a  day  pass.) 

ACT   III. 

The  Vicarage  Parlour  as  in  Act  I. 

(^A  year  passes.) 

ACT   IV. 

The  Minster  Church  at  Cleveheddon. 

(  Ten  months  pass. ) 

ACT  V. 

Reception  Room  of  the  Monastery  of  San  Salvatore 
at  Majano,  Italy. 


ACT   I 

Scene.  —  The  Vicarage  parlour  at  Cleveheddon.  An 
old-fashioned  comfortable  roo)n  in  an  old  English 
house.  A  large  window,  with  low  broad  sill,  takes 
up  nearly  all  the  back  of  the  stage,  showing  to  the 
right  a  fart  of  Cleveheddon  Minster  in  ruins.  To  the 
left  a  stretch  of  West  Country  landscape.  A  door, 
right,  leading  to  house.  A  fireplace,  right.  A  door, 
left.  Table  with  chairs,  right.  A  portrait  of 
Michael's  mother  hangs  on  wall  at  a  height  of 
about  nine  feet.  It  is  a  vety  striking  painting  of  a 
lady  about  twenty-eight,  very  delicate  and  spirituelle. 
Time.  —  A  fine  spring  morning.  Discover  at  the 
window,  looking  off  right,  with  face  turned  away 
from  audience,  and  in  an  attitude  of  strained 
attention  to  something  outside,  Andrew  Gibbard. 
Enter  Fanny  Clover,  the  vicarage  servant,  show- 
ing in  the  Reverend  Mark  Docwray,  a  middle- 
aged  clergyman. 

Fanny.     Mr.  Feversham  is  over  to  the  church,  sir, 
but  he'll  be  back  directly.  {Exit.) 

Mark.     Andrew 

B  I 


2  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         ACT  I 

(Andrew  turns  ro2ind,  an  odd,  rather  seedy,  care- 
lessly-dressed 7nan,  a  little  over  forty,  rather 
gaunt,  longish  hair,  an  intelligent  face  with 
something  slightly  sinister  about  it.  He  shows 
signs  of  great  recent  sorrow  and  distress?) 

Mark.    Andrew,  what  is  it? 

Andr.     I'd  rather  not  tell  you,  Mr.  Docwray. 

Mark.    Nothing  has  happened  to  Mr.  Feversham? 

Andr.     No. 

Mark.    Come  !     Come  !     What's  the  matter? 

Andr.     My  daughter 

Mark.    What  ails  her?    Where  is  she? 

Andr.     Over  at  the  church. 

Mark.    What  is  she  doing? 

Andr.     Making  a  pubHc  confession. 

Mark.    Public  confession  —  of  what  ? 

Andr.  You'll  be  sure  to  hear  all  about  it,  so  I  may 
as  well  tell  you  myself.  Perhaps  it  was  my  fault, 
perhaps  I  neglected  her.  All  my  time  is  given  to  Mr. 
Feversham  in  the  library  here.  While  I  was  buried  in 
my  work,  and  sometimes  staying  here  half  the  night 
with  Mr.  Feversham,  a  scoundrel  ruined  my  girl.  Of 
course  my  only  thought  was  to  hide  it.    Was  I  wrong? 

Mark.    Go  on.     Tell  me  all. 

Andr.  Well,  right  or  wrong,  I  sent  her  away  to 
the  other  end  of  England.  Her  child  only  lived  a  few 
weeks.  And  I  brought  her  back  home  thinking  it  was 
all  hushed  up. 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  3 

Mark.    But  it  became  known? 

Andr.  Yes.  Little  by  little,  things  began  to  leak 
out.  Well,  you  may  blame  me  if  you  like  —  I  lied 
about  it ;  and  the  more  lies  I  told,  the  more  I  had  to 
tell  to  cover  them.  Mr.  Feversham  heard  of  it  and 
questioned  us.  Like  a  fool  I  lied  to  him.  It  wasn't 
like  lying,  it  was  hke  murdering  the  truth  to  tell  lies 
to  him.  And  she  had  to  lie,  too.  Of  course  he 
believed  us  and  defended  us  against  everybody.  And 
then  we  daredn't  tell  him  the  truth. 

Mark.    Go  on.     What  else  ? 

Andr.  There's  nothing  else.  It  all  had  to  come 
out  at  last. 

Mark.    What  did  Mr.  Feversham  do? 

Andr.  He  persuaded  us  that  we  could  never  be 
right  with  ourselves,  or  right  with  our  neighbours,  or 
right  with  our  God,  till  we  had  unsaid  all  our  lies, 
and  undone  our  deceit.  So  we've  confessed  it  this 
morning. 

Mark.    In  church  ?     In  public  ? 

Andr.  Yes.  I  wouldn't  have  minded  it  for  myself. 
But  was  it  necessary  for  her  —  for  Rose?  Was  it 
bound  to  be  in  public  before  all  her  companions, 
before  all  who  had  watched  her  grow  up  from  a 
child? 

Mark.  You  may  be  sure  Mr.  Feversham  wouldn't 
have  urged  it  unless  he  had  felt  it  to  be  right  and 
necessary. 

Andr.     I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  anybody  else  in 


4  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  i 

the  world.     I  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  quits  with  him 
for  all  his  favours  to  me. 

Mark.  You  mustn't  speak  like  this.  Remember 
all  he  has  done  for  you. 

Andr.  Oh,  I  don't  forget  it.  I  don't  forget  that 
I  was  his  scout's  son,  and  that  he  educated  me  and 
made  me  his  friend  and  companion  and  helper  —  there 
isn't  a  crumb  I  eat  or  a  thread  I  wear  that  I  don't  owe 
to  him.  I  don't  forget  it.  But  after  this  morning,  I 
feel  it  isn't  I  who  am  in  Mr.  Feversham's  debt  —  it's 
he  who  is  in  my  debt. 

(^A  penitential  hymn,  with  organ  accompaniment, 
is  sung  in  church  outside.") 

Andr.  {looking  off).  It's  over.  They're  coming 
out. 

Mark.  Why  aren't  you  there,  in  church,  by  her 
side? 

Andr.  I  was.  I  went  to  church  with  her.  I  stood 
up  first  and  answered  all  his  questions,  and  then  I 
stood  aside,  and  it  was  her  turn.  I  saw  her  step  for- 
ward, and  I  noticed  a  little  twitch  of  her  lip  like  her 
mother  used  to  have,  and  then  —  I  couldn't  bear  it 
any  longer  —  I  came  away.  I  know  it  was  cowardly, 
but  I  couldn't  stay.  {Looking  off.)  Hark  !  They're 
coming  !  She's  coming  with  the  sister  who  is  going 
to  take  her  away. 

Mark.    Take  her  away? 

Andr.  Mr.  Feversham  thinks  it  better  for  her  to 
be  away  from  the  gossip  of  the  village,  so  he  has 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  5 

found  a  home  for  her  with  some  sisters  in  London. 

She's  going  straight  off  there.     Perhaps  it's  best.     I 

don't  know. 

(Rose  Gibbard,  sobbing,  with  her  face  in  her 
hands,  passes  the  window  from  right  to  left, 
supported  by  a?i  Anglican  sister.  The  Rever- 
end Michael  Feversham  follows  them  and 
passes  window.  A  crowd  of  villagers  come 
up  to  the  window  and  look  in.  A  mo77ient  or 
two  later,  Rose  Gibbard  enters  left,  supported 
by  the  sister.  Rose  is  a  pretty  delicate  girl 
of  about  twenty,  with  rather  refined  features 
and  bearing.') 
Andr.    (^holding  out  his  arms  to  her).     Bear  up, 

my  dear.     Don't  cry  !     It  breaks  my  heart  to  see 

you. 

Enter  the  Reverend  Michael  Feversham,  about  forty  ; 
pale,  stro7ig,  calm,  ascetic,  scholarly  face,  with  7nuch 
sweetness  and  spirituality  of  expression  ;  very  digni- 
fied, gentle  manners,  calm,  strong,  persuasive  voice, 
ra}'ely  raised  above  an  ordinary  speaking  tone.  His 
whole  presetice  and  beaj-ing  denote  great  strength  of 
character,  great  dignity,  great  gentleness,  and  great 
self-control. 

The  villagers  gather  rou7id  the  outside  of  the 
window  and  look  in  with  mitigled  curiosity,  rude- 
ness, and  respect.  Michael  goes  up  to  left  window, 
opens  it.     The  villagers  draw  back  a  little. 


6  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  ACT  i 

Mich,  {speaking  in  a  very  calm  voice').  Those  of 
you  who  are  filled  with  idle  foolish  curiosity,  come 
and  look  in.  {They  fall  back.)  Those  of  you  who 
have  been  moved  by  the  awful  lesson  of  this  morn- 
ing, go  to  your  homes,  ponder  it  in  your  hearts,  so 
that  all  your  actions  and  all  your  thoughts  from  this 
time  forth  may  be  as  open  as  the  day,  as  clear  as 
crystal,  as  white  as  snow. 

( They  all  go  away  gradually.      Michael  comes 
away  from  the  window,  leaving  it  open,  goes 
to  Mark.) 
Mich.     yi-xxW  {Cordial handshake.)    You've  come 
to  stay,  I  hope? 

Mark.    A  few  days.    You  have  a  little  business  here  ? 
{Glancing  at  the  group  of  Rose,  Andrew,  and 
Sister.) 
Mich.     It's  nearly  finished.     Leave  me  with  them 
for  a  few  moments. 

Mark.  I'll  get  rid  of  the  dust  of  my  journey  and 
come  back  to  you. 

{Exit  Mark.     Michael  turns  towards  Rose  with 
great  tenderness.) 
Mich.     Poor  child  ! 

{She  comes  towards  him  with  evident  effort ;  the 

Sister  brings  a  chair  and  she  sinks  into  it, 

sobbing.) 

Mich,   {bending  over  her  with  great   tenderness). 

I  know  what  you  have  suffered  this  morning.     I  would 

willingly  have  borne  it  for  you,  but  that  would  not 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  7 

have  made  reparation  to  those  whom  you  have  de- 
ceived, or  given  you  peace  in  your  own  soul.  {She 
continues  sobbing.^  Hush  !  Hush  !  All  the  bitter- 
ness is  past !  Look  only  to  the  future  !  Think  of 
the  happy  newness  and  whiteness  of  your  life  from 
this  moment !  Think  of  the  delight  of  waking  in  the 
morning  and  knowing  that  you  have  nothing  to  hide  ! 
Be  sure  you  have  done  right  to  own  your  sin.  There 
won't  be  a  softer  pillow  in  England  to-night  than  the 
one  your  head  rests  upon.  {She  becomes  quieter. 
Michael  tu7-ns  to  the  Sister.)  Watch  over  her  very 
carefully.  Keep  her  from  brooding.  Let  her  be 
occupied  constantly  with  work.  And  write  to  me 
very  often  to  tell  me  how  she  is.  {Turns  to  Rose.) 
The  carriage  is  ready.  It's  time  to  say  good-bye. 
Rose.     Good-bye,   sir.      Thank   you   for   all   your 

kindness.     I've  been  very  wicked 

Mich.     Hush  !     That  is  all  buried  now. 
Rose.     Good-bye,  father. 

{Throws  her  arms  rojind  Andrew's  neck,  clings 

to  him,  sobs  convulsively  for  some  moments  in 

a  paroxysm  of  grief.     Michael  watches  them 

for  some  fnotnents.) 

Mich,  {iiitercepts,  gently  separates  theni).    It's  more 

than  she  can  bear.     Say  good-bye,  and  let  her  go. 

Andr.     {breaking   down).      Good-bye,    my   dear! 

{Kissifig  her.)     Good-bye  —  I — I — I 

( Tears  himself  away,  goes  up  to  window,  stands 
back  to  audience.) 


8  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  i 

Mich.  {To  Rose.)  No  more  tears  !  Tears  are 
for  evil  and  sin,  and  yours  are  all  past !  Write  to 
me  and  tell  me  how  you  get  on,  and  how  you  like 
the  work.  It  will  bring  you  great  peace  —  great 
peace.  Why,  you  are  comforted  already  —  I  think 
I  see  one  of  your  old  happy  smiles  coming.  What 
do  you  think,  sister,  isn't  that  the  beginning  of  a 
smile  ? 

Sister.     Yes,  sir.     I  think  it  is. 

Rose.  Good-bye,  sir  —  thank  you  for  all  your 
goodness.     I  —  I {Beginning  to  sob  again.^ 

Mich,  No,  no,  you  are  forgetting.  I  must  see  a 
little  smile  before  you  go.  Look,  Andrew.  (Andrew 
turns  round.)  For  your  father's  sake.  When  you 
have  gone  you  will  like  him  to  remember  that  the  last 
time  he  saw  your  face  it  wore  a  smile.  That's  brave  ! 
Good-bye  !     Good-bye  ! 

(Rose  with  great  effort  forces  a  smile  and  goes  off 
with  the  Sister.  A  moment  or  two  later  she 
is  seen  to  pass  the  window  sobbitig  in  the 
Sister's  arms.) 

Andr.  Look !  Oh,  sir,  was  it  bound  to  be  in 
public,  before  everybody  who  knew  her  ? 

Mich.  Believe  me,  Andrew,  if  my  own  sister,  if 
my  own  child  had  been  in  your  daughter's  place,  I 
would  have  counselled  her  to  act  as  your  daughter 
has  done. 

Andr.    She'll  never  hold  up  her  head  again. 

Mich.     Would   you  rather  that   she  held  up   her 


ACT  1  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  9 

head  in  deceit  and  defiance,  or  that  she  held  it  down 
in  grief  and  penitence?  Think  what  you  and  she 
have  endured  this  last  year,  the  deceit,  the  agony,  the 
shame,  the  guilt ! 

AxDR.  I  can't  think  of  anything  except  her  stand- 
ing up  in  the  church.     I  shall  never  forget  it. 

Mich.  Tell  me  you  know  I  would  willingly  have 
spared  you  and  her  if  it  had  been  possible. 

AxDR.    Then  it  wasn't  possible  ? 

Mich.  I  have  done  to  you  this  morning  as  I  would 
wish  to  be  done  by  if  I  had  followed  a  course  of  con- 
tinued deception. 

Andr.  Ah,  sir,  it's  easy  for  you  to  talk.  You 
aren't  likely  to  be  tempted,  so  you  aren't  hkely  to 
fall. 

Mich.  I  trust  not !  I  pray  God  to  keep  me.  But 
if  ever  I  did,  I  should  think  him  my  true  friend  who 
made  me  confess  and  rid  my  soul  of  my  guilt.  And 
you  think  me  your  true  friend,  don't  you,  Andrew? 
{Holding  out  hand.)  Won't  you  shake  hands  with 
me? 

(Andrew  takes  Michael's  ha7id  reluctantly,  shakes 
it  half-heartedly  ;  is  going  off  at  door.) 

Mich,  {calls).  Andrew,  it  \vill  be  very  lonely  in 
your  own  house  now  your  daughter  has  gone.  Come 
and  live  with  me  here.  There  is  the  large  visitors' 
room.  Take  it  for  your  own,  and  make  this  your 
home.  You  will  be  nearer  to  our  work,  and  you  will 
be  nearer  to  me,  my  friend. 


lo  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  ACT  I 

Mark  enters. 

Mark  {aidoor).     Am  I  interrupting? 

Mich.  No.  Come  in.  My  little  talk  with  Andrew 
is  finished,  {To  Andrew.)  Say  you  know  I  have 
done  what  is  right  and  best  for  you  and  her. 

Andr.  You've  done  what  you  thought  was  best  for 
us,  sir.  I've  never  doubted  that.  I  can't  see  any- 
thing straight  or  clear  this  morning.  {Exit.) 

Mark.     You've  had  a  painful  business  here  ? 

Mich.  Terrible  !  But  I  was  bound  to  go  through 
with  it.  The  whole  village  was  talking  of  it.  I 
believed  in  her  innocence  and  defended  her  to  the 
last.  So  when  the  truth  came  out  I  daren't  hush  it 
up.  I  should  have  been  accused  of  hiding  sin  in  my 
own  household.  But  that  poor  child !  My  heart 
bled  for  her  !  Don't  let  us  speak  any  more  of  it. 
Tell  me  about  yourself  and  the  work  in  London. 

Mark.     You  must  come  and  join  us  there. 

(Michael  shakes  his  head.') 

Mich.  I  couldn't  live  there.  Every  time  I  go  up 
for  a  day  or  two  I  come  back  more  and  more  sick- 
ened and  frightened  and  disheartened.  Besides,  you 
forget  my  Eastern  studies.  They  are  my  real  work. 
I  couldn't  pursue  them  in  the  hurry  and  fever  of 
London. 

Mark.  How  are  you  getting  on  with  the  Arabic 
translations  ? 

Mich.     Slowly  but  surely.     Andrew  is  invaluable  to 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  ii 

me.  In  spite  of  his  bringing  up,  he  has  the  true 
instincts  of  the  scholar. 

Mark.  Well,  you  know  best.  But  we  want  you  in 
London.  You'd  soon  raise  the  funds  for  restoring  the 
Minster. 

Mich,  {shakes  his  head).  I  can't  go  round  with 
the  hat. 

Mark.     How's  the  work  getting  on? 

Mich.  Very  slowly.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  live 
to  finish  it.  By  the  bye,  I  received  fifty  pounds  anony- 
mously only  yesterday. 

Mark.    Have  you  any  idea  where  it  came  from  ? 

Mich.  No.  The  Bank  advised  me  that  it  had 
been  paid  to  my  credit  by  a  reader  of  my  "  Hidden 
Life,"  who  desired  to  remain  anonymous. 

Mark.  The  book  is  having  an  enormous  influence. 
Nothing  else  is  talked  about.  And  it  has  gained  you 
one  very  rich  proselyte  —  this  Mrs.  Lesden.  She's 
living  here,  isn't  she  ? 

Mich.     Yes.     Curious  woman 

Mark.    Have  you  seen  much  of  her? 

Mich.  I  called,  of  course.  I've  met  her  once  or 
twice  at  dinner.  She  has  called  here  three  or  four 
times,  and  wasted  several  good  hours  for  me. 

Mark.    How  wasted  ? 

Mich.  Kept  me  from  my  work.  I  wish  the  woman 
would  take  herself  back  to  London. 

Mark.    Why? 

Mich.     Her  frivolity  and  insincerity  repel  me.     No 


12  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  i 

—  not  insincerity.     I  recall  that.     For  she  said  one  or 
two  things  that  seemed  to  show  a  vein  of  true,  deep 
feeling.     But  on  the  whole  I  dislike  her  —  I  think  I 
dislike  her  very  much. 
Mark.    Why  ? 

Mich.     She  comes  regularly  to  church 

Mark.    Surely  there's  no  very  great  harm  in  that 


Mich.  No  ;  but  I  don't  know  whether  she's  mock- 
ing, or  criticising,  or  worshipping ;  or  whether  she's 
merely  bored,  and  thinking  that  my  surplice  is  not 
enough  starched,  or  starched  too  much. 

Mark.  She's  very  rich,  and  would  be  an  immense 
help  to  our  movement.    I  should  try  and  cultivate  her, 

Mich.  I  can't  cultivate  people.  What  do  you  think 
of  her  ? 

Mark.  A  very  clever  society  woman,  all  the  more 
clever  that  she  was  not  born  in  society. 

Mich.     What  do  you  know  of  her  ? 

Mark.  Merely  what  I  wrote  you  in  my  letter. 
That  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  an  Australian 
millionaire.  Her  great-grandfather,  I  believe,  was  an 
Australian  convict.  She  was  sent  to  England  to  be 
educated,  went  back  to  Australia,  married,  lost  her 
husband  and  father,  came  back  to  England  a  widow, 
took  a  house  in  Mayfair,  entertained  largely,  gave 
largely  to  charities,  read  your  book,  "The  Hidden 
Life,"  came  down  to  see  the  country  round  here, 
made  up  her  mind  to  live  here,  and  wanted  an  intro- 
duction to  you  —  which  I  gave  her. 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  13 

Enter  Fanny,  announcing  Sir  Lyolf  Feversham,  an 
English  country  gentleman,  about  sixty-five,  a  little 
old-fashioned  in  manners  and  dress.       Exit  Fanny. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Michael  —  Mr.  Docwray  !  Glad  to  see 
you.  You're  talking  business,  or  rather  religion,  which 
is  your  business.     Am  I  in  the  way? 

Mich.  No,  we're  not  talking  business.  We're  dis- 
cussing a  woman. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Aren't  women  nine-tenths  of  a  par- 
son's business?  (Michael  looks  a  little  shocked.) 
Excuse  me,  my  dear  boy.  {To  Mark.)  I  quite 
believe  in  all  Michael  is  doing.  I  accept  all  his  new 
doctrines,  I'm  prepared  to  go  all  lengths  with  him,  on 
condition  that  I  indulge  the  latent  old  Adam  in  me 
with  an  occasional  mild  joke  at  his  expense.  But 
{with  great  feeling)  he  knows  how  proud  I  am  of 
him,  and  how  thankful  I  am  to  God  for  having  given 
me  a  son  who  is  shaping  religious  thought  throughout 
England  to-day,  and  who  {with  a  change  to  sly  hu- 
mour) will  never  be  a  bishop  —  not  even  an  arch- 
deacon —  I  don't  believe  he'll  be  so  much  as  a  rural 
dean.  What  about  this  woman  you  were  discussing? 
I'll  bet  —  {coughs  himself  up)  —  I  should  say,  I'll 
wager — (Michael  looks  shocked.  Sir  Lyolf  shrugs 
his  shoulders  at  Mark,  proceeds  in  a  firm  voice)  — 
without  staking  anything,  I  will  wager  I  know  who 
the  lady  is  —  Mrs.  Lesden  ?    Am  I  right  ? 

Mich.     Yes.    \ 


14  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  i 

Sir  Lyolf.  Well,  I  haven't  heard  your  opinion  of 
her.  But  I'll  give  you  mine  ■ —  without  prejudice  — 
{wifk  emphasis)  very  queer  lot. 

Mark.  Michael  had  just  said  she  was  a  curious 
creature. 

Mich.     I  don't  understand  her. 

Sir  Lyolf.  When  you  don't  understand  a  woman, 
depend  upon  it  there's  something  not  quite  right 
about  her. 

Mich.  She  seems  to  have  immense  possibilities  of 
good  and  evil. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Nonsense.  There  are  all  sorts  of  men, 
but,  believe  me,  there  are  only  two  sorts  of  women  — 
good  and  bad. 

Mich.  You  can't  divide  women  into  two  classes 
like  that. 

Sir  Lyolf.  But  I  do  —  sheep  and  goats.  Sheep 
on  the  right  hand  —  goats  on  the  left. 

Mich,  {^shaking  his  head).  Women's  characters 
have  greater  subtlety  than  you  suppose. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Subtlety  is  the  big  cant  word  of  our 
age.  Depend  upon  it,  there's  nothing  in  subtlety. 
It  either  means  hair-splitting  or  it  means  downright 
evil.  The  devil  was  the  first  subtle  character  we  meet 
with  in  history. 

Mich.  And  he  has  still  something  to  do  with  the 
shaping  of  character  in  this  world. 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  don't  doubt  it.  And  I  think  he  has 
very  likely  something  to  do  with  the  shaping  of  Mrs. 
Lesden's. 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  15 

Mich.  Hasn't  he  something  to  do  with  the  shap- 
ing of  all  our  characters?  Don't  all  our  souls  swing 
continually  between  heaven  and  hell  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.  Well,  the  woman  whose  soul  swings 
continually  between  heaven  and  hell  is  not  the  woman 
whom  I  would  choose  to  sit  at  my  fireside  or  take  the 
head  of  my  table.  Though  I  don't  say  I  wouldn't  ask 
her  to  dinner  occasionally.  That  reminds  me,  how 
long  are  you  staying,  Mr,  Docwray  ? 

Mark.     Only  till  Friday. 

Sir  Lyolf.   You'll  dine  with  me  to-morrow  evening  ? 

Mark.     Delighted. 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  too,  Michael.  I'll  ask  the  Stander- 
wicks,  and  {suddenly)  suppose  I  ask  this  lady? 

Mich.     Mrs.  Lesden?     I  would  rather  you  didn't. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Why  not?  If  her  soul  is  swinging 
between  heaven  and  hell,  it  would  only  be  kind  of 
you  to  give  it  a  jog  towards  heaven. 

Mich.  Very  well  —  ask  her.  But  I  would  rather 
you  didn't  speak  lightly  of 

Sir  Lyolf.     Of  her  soul  ? 

Mich.     Of  anyone's  soul  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  won't  —  even  of  a  woman's.  But 
I  wish  they  wouldn't  swing  about.  Women's  souls 
oughtn't  to  swing  anywhere,  except  towards  heaven. 
Ah,  Michael,  you  must  let  me  have  my  fling.  Re- 
member when  I  was  a  boy,  religion  was  a  very  simple, 
easy-going  affair.  Parson  —  clerk  —  old  three-decker 
pulpit  —  village  choir.     What  a  village  choir  !     I  sup- 


l6  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  i 

pose  it  was  all  wrong — but  they  were  very  comfortable 
old  days. 

Mich.     Religion  is  not  simple  —  or  easy-going. 

Sir  Lyolf.  No.  Subtlety  again.  I  want  a  plain 
"  yes  "  or  "  no,"  a  plain  black  or  white,  a  plain  right 
or  wrong,  and  none  of  our  teachers  or  preachers  is 
prepared  to  give  it  to  me.  Oh  dear  !  This  world  has 
grown  too  subtle  for  me  !  I'll  step  over  to  Island 
House  and  ask  Mrs.  Lesden  to  dinner  to-morrow. 

Mark.  I'll  come  with  you  and  pay  my  respects  to 
her.     You  don't  mind,  Michael? 

Mich.  Not  at  all.  I  want  to  set  Andrew  to  work 
at  once  to  keep  him  from  dwelling  on  his  trouble. 

Sir  Lvolf.  I  didn't  come  to  the  church  this  morn- 
ing. I  felt  it  would  be  too  painful.  (  Glancing  up  at 
portrait.^     What  would  she  have  said  about  it? 

Mich.     I  think  she  approves  what  I  have  done. 

Sir  Lyolf  {looks  at  portrait,  sighs,  turns  away). 
Come,  Mr.  Docwray.  I  can't  say  I  like  this  Mrs. 
Lesden  of  yours  —  I  wonder  why  I'm  going  to  ask 
her  to  dinner.  {Exit.) 

Mark  {who  has  been  looking  intently  at  portrait). 
What  a  wonderful  portrait  that  is  of  your  mother  !  It 
seems  as  if  she  were  alive  ! 

Mich.     She  is.        {Exit  Mark  after  Sir  Lyolf.) 

Mich,  {goes  up  steps,  takes  portrait  into  his  hand). 
Yes,  I  have  acted  faithfully  to  my  people,  have  I  not? 
Whisper  to  me  that  I  have  done  right  to  restore  to 
this  wandering  father   and   child   the   blessing   of  a 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  17 

transparent  life,  a  life  without  secrecy  and  without 
guile  !  Whisper  to  me  that  in  this  morning's  work  I 
have  done  what  is  well  pleasing  to  my  God  and  to 
you. 

AuDRiE  Lesden,  about  thirty,  in  a  very  fashionable 
morning  dress,  enters  at  back  of  window  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  Sir  Lyolf  and 
Mark  have  gone  off.  At  first  she  seems  to  be 
watching  them  off.  When  she  gets  to  the  open 
window,  she  turns  and  sees  Michael  with  the 
portrait  in  his  hand.  Michael  very  reverently 
kisses  the  portrait  and  places  it  on  table ;  as  he 
does  so  he  sees  her. 

Mich.     Mrs.  Lesden  ! 

AuDR.     Wasn't  that  Sir  Lyolf  who  just  went  out? 

Mich.     Yes.     I'll  call  him  back 

AuDR.     Please  don't. 

Mich.     But  he  wishes  to  speak  to  you. 

AuDR.     I  don't  wish  to  speak  to  him. 

Mich.     Why  not  ? 

AuDR.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

Mich.     About  what  ? 

AuDR.  About  my  soul,  about  your  soul,  and  about 
other  people's  souls.  {Leaning  a  little  in  at  the  win- 
dow. He  remains  silent,  and  reserved.  All  through 
the  early  part  of  the  scene  his  demeanoiir  is  cold,  con- 
straijied,  and  a  little  impatient.     A  pause. ^     I  know 


I8  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  i 

you  make  it  a  rule  always  to  see  people  about  their 
souls. 

Mich,  {very  coldly).  If  they  are  really  in  need  of 
spiritual  advice. 

AuDR.  I  think  I'm  in  need  of  spiritual  advice.  {A 
pause.  He  statids  cold,  irrespojisive.)  Did  you  see 
me  in  church  ? 

Mich.    Yes. 

AuDR.  The  whole  thing  was  delightfully  novel. 
{He  frowns.)  Do  you  mean  to  repeat  this  morning's 
scene  ? 

Mich.     Scene  ? 

AuDR.  It  was  a  "  scene,"  you  know.  I  felt  terribly 
distressed  for  the  poor  girl.     And  yet  I  envied  her. 

Mich.     Envied  her? 

AuDR.  {leaning  a  little  more  in  at  the  window). 
You  must  allow  she  was  the  heroine  of  the  occasion, 
though  you  were  certainly  very  impressive  yourself, 
and  did  your  part  very  well.  Still,  after  all,  it's  the 
man  who  is  to  be  hanged  who  is  the  central  figure  in 
the  proceedings.  And  the  poor  little  creature  looked 
exquisitely  pathetic  and  graceful,  and  so  sweetly  inno- 
cent —  quite  good  enough  to  go  to  heaven  right  away, 
I  thought.  A  Sunday-school  teacher  told  me  ace 
that  it  is  nearly  always  the  good  girls  who  are  betrayed. 
Is  that  so  ? 

Mich,  {coldly).  You  came  to  speak  to  me  about 
yourself. 

AuDR.     So  I  did.     Do  you  know  when  I  saw  that 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  19 

girl  standing  there  and  looking  so  interesting,  I  felt  I 
wouldn't  mind  making  a  public  confession  myself —  if 
you  thought  it  would  benefit  the  parish  —  and  if  you 
would  allow  me  to  wear  a  special  dress  for  the 
occasion  ? 

(Michael    turns   round  quickly   as   if  about  to 
speak  angrily  to  her,  stops,  refnains  silent.) 

AuDR.  (^musingly).  I  suppose  one  couldn't  confess 
in  anything  except  black  or  white.  It  couldn't  be 
done  in  red  or  yellow  —  or  blue.  Pale  grey  might  do. 
{Pause.)     What  do  you  think? 

(Michael  does  not  reply.) 

AuDR.  {leaning  a  little  more  in  at  the  window,  in 
a  much  lower  and  subtler  tone).  Don't  you  find  it  an 
exquisite  pleasure  to  feel  your  sense  of  power  over 
your  people,  especially  over  us  poor  women  ? 

Mich.  When  you  come  to  me  you  are  neither 
man  nor  woman  —  you  are  only  a  soul  in  sin  and 
distress. 

AuDR.  Oh,  no  !  I  won't  be  an  "  it."  I  insist  on 
being  a  woman,  though  I  don't  mind  having  a  soul  — 
and  in  sin  and  distress,  too.  And  I  would  save  it  — 
only  I  always  think  it's  such  a  selfish  piece  of  busi- 
ness, saving  one's  soul,  —  don't  you?  —  so  unkind  to 
all  one's  neighbours?  {He  stands  half-bored,  half- 
angry.  A  little  pause.)  Do  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking  in  church  this  morning? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.     I  was  comparing  the  delights  of  three  dif- 


20  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  I 

ferent  professions,  —  the  soldier's,  the  doctor's,  and  the 
priest's.  What  a  glorious  joy  it  must  be  to  ride  to 
meet  a  man  who  is  riding  to  kill  you  —  and  to  kill  him/ 
But  I'd  rather  be  a  doctor,  and  play  with  life  and 
death.  To  have  a  man  in  your  power,  to  see  him 
lying  tossing  on  his  bed,  and  to  think,  "This  may  cure 
him,  or  it  may  kill  him.  Shall  I  risk  it?  At  any  rate, 
if  he  dies,  I  shall  have  learnt  so  much.  I  will  risk  it ! 
And  —  he  dies  —  No,  he  lives!  I've  saved  him." 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  a  doctor  ? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.  That's  because  you  know  what  far  greater 
joy  it  is  to  be  a  priest.  {He  turns  very  angrily.)  To 
play  with  people's  souls 

Mich.     Play ! 

AuDR.  You  do  play  with  our  souls,  don't  you? 
They're  in  your  hands.  To  think,  "This  man,  or,  say, 
this  woman,  has  an  immortal  soul.  She  is  vain,  silly, 
deceitful,  foolish,  perhaps  wicked,  perhaps  horribly 
wicked.  She'll  lose  her  soul  and  be  eternally  lost. 
But  if  I  were  to  struggle  with  her  for  it,  rebuke  her, 
teach  her,  plead  with  her,  entreat  her,  guide  her  — 
who  knows  —  she's  not  wholly  bad  —  I  might  save 
her?  Is  she  worth  saving?  The  worse  she  is,  the 
greater  will  be  my  reward  and  honour  for  having  saved 
her.  Shall  I  do  it?  This  woman's  soul  is  in  my 
keeping  !  I  can  choose  for  her  eternal  life  or  eternal 
death.  What  shall  I  do?  Shall  I  save  her,  or  let  her 
be  lost  ?  " 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  21 

Mich,  {comes  eagerly  to  the  window).  Do  you 
mean  that? 

AuDR.     Mean  what? 

Mich.     That  your  soul  is  in  my  keeping  ? 

AuDR.  Not  at  all.  I  meant  nothing  except  that 
thoughts  like  these  must  constantly  stray  through  a 
priest's  mind.  Don't  they?  {Long  paii.se.')  Why 
don't  you  speak? 

Mich,     {cold,    stern).     I     have    nothing    to    say. 

{Pause.) 

AuDR.  {taking  out  purse,  taking  out  two  notes). 
Oh  !  I  was  forgetting  —  I've  brought  you  a  little  con- 
tribution for  the  restoration  of  your  Minster. 

{Putting  notes  on  window-sill.     Michael  stands 
cold,  angry.) 

AuDR.     Won't  you  take  it? 

Mich.     Thank  you.     No. 

AuDR.  I  think  you're  a  little  rude  to  me.  I  came 
as  a  heart-stricken  penitent ;  you  wouldn't  accept 
me  in  that  character.  Then  I  came  as  a  pious 
donor.  You  wouldn't  accept  me  in  that.  You've 
kept  me  outside  here  —  you  haven't  even  asked 
me  in. 

Mich,  {very  sternly).  Come  in!  {She  looks  up, 
unce?-tain  as  to  his  ifitentions.)  {Same  cold,  stem 
voice.)  Please  to  come  in.  That  way  —  the  outer 
door  is  open. 

{She  goes  off,  he  goes  to  door  left,  opens  it,  she 
comes  in.) 


22  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  i 

Mich,  {the  moment  she  has  entered  closes  door  de- 
cisively, then  turns  round  on  her  very  sternly^ .  What 
brings  you  to  this  village,  to  my  church,  to  my  house  ? 
Why  are  you  here  ?  Come  to  me  as  a  penitent,  and 
I  will  try  to  give  you  peace  !  Come  to  me  as  a  woman 
of  the  world,  and  I  will  tell  you  "  The  friendship  of 
the  world  is  enmity  with  God.  It  always  has  been 
so,  it  always  will  be.  The  Church  has  no  need  of  you, 
of  your  pretended  devotions,  of  your  gifts,  of  your  pres- 
ence at  her  services.  Go  your  way  back  to  the  world, 
and  leave  her  alone."  But  you  come  neither  as  a  peni- 
tent, nor  as  a  woman  of  the  world.  You  come  like  — 
like  some  bad  angel,  to  mock,  and  hint,  and  question, 
and  suggest.  How  dare  you  play  with  sacred  things  ? 
How  dare  you  ?  ! 

AuDR.  {very  low,  quiet,  amused  voice).  I  do  not 
think  it  seemly  or  becoming  in  a  clergyman  to  give 
way  to  temper.  If  anyone  had  asked  me  I  should 
have  said  it  was  impossible  in  you. 

{He  stands  stern,  cold,  repellent.) 

Enter  Andrew. 

Mich.     What  is  it,  Andrew  ? 

Andr.    I  thought  you  were  disengaged.     (  Goitig.') 

Mich.     So  I  am.     I'll  come  to  you  at  once. 

(^;c// Andrew.) 
Mich.  (/(?  Audrie).     You  are  right.     It  is  unseemly 
to  give  way  to  temper,  and  perhaps  you  won't  think 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  23 

me  rude  if  I  guard  myself  against  it  in  future  by  ask- 
ing you  not  to  call  upon  me  until  I  can  be  of  real 
service  to  you.     Good  morning. 

AuDR.  Mr.  Feversham,  Mr.  Feversham.  (Michael 
turns?)  I've  been  very  rude  and  troublesome.  I  beg 
your  pardon.     Please  forgive  me. 

Mich.     Certainly.     Pray  say  no  more. 

AuDR.  I  saw  you  kissing  that  portrait  as  I  stood  at 
the  window.     It  is  your  mother  ? 

Mich.    Yes. 

AuDR.  What  a  good  woman  she  must  have  been  ! 
Don't  think  because  I  am  bad 

Mich.     Are  you  bad? 

AuDR.  Didn't  you  say  I  was  ?  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  bad  or  good,  but  I  know  that  no  woman  longs  to 
be  good  more  than  I  do  —  sometimes. 

Mich.     Do  you  indeed? 

AuDR.  {impulsively) .     Let  me  kiss  that  portrait ! 
{Leaning for7vard  to  do  it.) 

Mich,  {peremptorily).     No. 

{Intercepts  and  stops  her.) 

AuDR.     Why  not? 

Mich.     I'd  rather  you  didn't. 

AuDR.     You  don't  think  I'm  good  enough. 

Mich.     I  cannot  allow  you. 

AuDR.     Who  painted  it? 

Mich.  A  young  Italian.  My  mother's  brother  is 
a  Catholic  priest,  and  at  that  time  he  was  living  at 
Rome.     My  mother  went  there  for  her  health  when  I 


24  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  act  I 

was  three  years  old.  This  young  Itahan  saw  her  and 
asked  permission  to  paint  her.  She  came  home  and 
died  of  consumption.  Then  my  uncle  sent  this  por- 
trait to  my  father  with  the  news  that  the  young  painter 
had  also  died  of  consumption. 

AuDR.  How  strange !  And  you've  had  it  ever 
since? 

Mich.  I  was  only  a  child  when  it  came.  I  fell  into 
the  habit  of  saying  my  prayers  before  it.  So  when  I 
first  left  home  my  father  gave  it  to  me ;  it  has  been 
with  me  ever  since,  at  Eton,  and  Oxford,  and  in  my 
different  curacies. 

AuDR.     Won't  you  let  me  kiss  it  before  I  go? 

(^Leaning  towards  it.) 

Mich,  {preventing  her).     I'd  rather  you  did  not. 

AuDR.     Why  not? 

Mich.  I  have  a  strange  belief  about  that  picture. 
I'll  hang  it  up. 

AuDR.  {a  little  intercepting  him).  No.  Let  me 
look  at  it.  Let  me  hold  it  in  my  hands.  I  won't 
kiss  it  without  your  permission.  {She  takes  it  a?id 
looks  at  it  intently.)  Tell  me  —  what  is  your  strange 
belief  about  it  ? 

Mich.  My  mother  was  a  deeply  religious  woman, 
and  before  my  birth  she  consecrated  me  to  this  ser- 
vice as  Hannah  consecrated  Samuel.  When  she  was 
dying  she  said  to  me,  "  I'm  not  leaving  you.  I  shall 
watch  over  you  every  moment  of  your  life.  There's 
not  a  word,  or  a  deed,  or  a  thought  of  yours  but  I 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  25 

shall  know  it.  You  won't  see  me,  but  I  shall  be  very 
near  you.  Sometimes  my  hands  will  be  upon  your 
head,  but  you  won't  know  it ;  sometimes  my  arms 
will  be  round  you,  but  you  won't  feel  them;  some- 
times my  lips  will  be  on  your  face,  but  you  won't 
know  that  I  have  kissed  you.  Remember  you  are 
watched  by  the  dead." 

AuDR.     And  you  believe  that  you  are  watched  by 
the  dead? 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.     And    that   she    is   with   us   now  —  in   this 
room  ? 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.     She  is  your  good  angel. 

Mich.     She  is  my  good  angel. 

AuDR.     I  can  understand  why  you  did  not  wish  me 
to  kiss  her. 

(Michael  makes  a  movement  to  take  the  picture.^ 

AuDR.  {retains  it).     No.     Yes,  I  feel  she  must  be 
in  this  room. 

Mich.     Why? 

AuDR.     I  was  full  of  silly  wicked  thoughts  when  I 
came  —  she  has  taken  them  away. 

Mich.     Ah,  if  I  dared  hope  that  you  would  really 
change  ! 

AuDR.     Perhaps  I  will.      ( Very  imploringly.)      Do 
let  me  kiss  this  sweet  face.  {Pause.) 

Mich.     No  —  at  least  not  now,  not  yet.      Please 
give  it   back   to    me.       {He  takes  it.)      I'll  hang  it 


26  MICHAEL  AND  HIS   LOST  ANGEL  act  i 

up.     (^He  takes  it  to  steps.)     Will  you  hold  it  for  a 
moment? 

(67^1?  comes  to  steps,  holds  it  while  he  mounts,  gives 
it  to  him.) 

AuDR.  What  a  wonderful  thought  that  is,  that  we 
are  watched  by  the  dead.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
before.  I  wonder  what  a  spirit  is  like  ?  {^He  hangs 
up  the  picture.)  Now  she  is  quite  out  of  my  reach. 
(^Ne  comes  down  steps.)  Won't  you  take  that  money 
for  rebuilding  the  Minster  !  It's  there  on  the  window- 
sill.     {He  goes  and  takes  it.)     Thank  you. 

Mich.     Thank  you. 

AuDR.  Then  I'm  not  to  call  again?  Not  even 
about  my  soul? 

Mich.  I'm  going  over  to  the  Island  for  some  time, 
and  shall  only  be  back  on  Sundays. 

AuDR.  Saint  Decuman's  Island.  You've  built  your- 
self a  house  over  there,  haven't  you? 

Mich.  The  shrine  was  neglected  and  decayed.  I 
restored  it  and  built  myself  a  couple  of  rooms  round 
it.  I've  a  few  books,  and  just  food  and  drink.  I  go 
over  there  sometimes  for  work  and  meditation. 

AuDR.     And  yours  is  the  only  house  on  the  island? 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.     Isn't  it  awfully  lonely  there  ? 

Mich,  {glancing  at  picture).     I'm  never  alone. 

AuDR.  No,  you  have  your  millions  and  millions  of 
good  and  bad  angels,  besides  hundreds  of  cheap 
excursionists. 


ACT  I  MICHAEL  AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL  27 

Mich.  Yes,  in  the  summer,  but  they  only  stay  a 
few  hours. 

AuDR.  I  can  see  the  smoke  from  your  chimney 
quite  plainly  in  the  evening  from  my  drawing-room 
windows.     How  far  is  it  across  ? 

Mich.     About  four  miles. 

AuDR.  I  shall  get  Hannaford  to  row  me  over  some 
day.  Don't  look  alarmed.  I  won't  come  when  you 
are  there.  I  should  frighten  all  your  good  angels 
away.  (Michael  shows  a  little  impatience.^  You 
want  to  get  rid  of  me.  {Going,  suddenly  turns.)  If 
I  come  to  you  as  a  penitent,  you  won't  send  me  away  ? 

Mich.     Not  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you. 

AuDR.  I  seem  to  have  changed  my  nature  since  I 
came  into  this  room. 

Mich.     How  ? 

AuDR.  I  don't  know.  I  wonder  how  many  natures 
I  have  and  how  often  I  can  change  them. 

Mich.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  like  that. 

AuDR.  I  won't.  ( Very  seriously.)  You  said  just 
now  that  I  was  plajang  with  sacred  things.  I  am,  or 
I  was  until  you  spoke  about  her.  {With  warning.) 
Don't  let  me  play  with  your  soul. 

Mich.     I  don't  understand  you. 

AuDR.  You  may  do  me  good,  but  I  am  far  more 
likely  to  do  you  harm. 

Mich.     How  ? 

AuDR.  I'm  not  nearly  so  good  a  woman  as  you  are 
a  man. 


28  MICHAEL  AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL         act  i 

Mich.     But  perhaps  I  may  influence  you  for  good. 

AuDR.  Do  you  think  that  you  can  have  any  influ- 
ence on  my  soul  without  my  having  an  equal  influence 
on  yours  ? 

Mich.  Action  and  re-action  are  equal  and  opposite. 
You  think  that  law  prevails  in  the  spiritual  world  as 
well  as  in  the  material  world  ? 

AuDR.     I'm  sure  it  does.     So  let  me  go. 

Mich,  {^suddenly,  with  great  feelifig) .  Oh,  if  I 
could  save  you  ! 

AuDR.  You  can  if  you  will.  I  would  try  so  hard  if 
you  would  only  help  me.  But  you  don't  believe  that 
I  can. 

Mich.     What  makes  you  say  that? 

AuDR.  You  called  me  a  bad  angel  —  and  you  don't 
think  me  good  enough  to  kiss  her.  {Sidling  up  to  the 
steps  ;  he  makes  a  deprecating  movement  to  prevetit  her, 
but  she  takes  no  notice^  If  you,  knew  it  would  give  me 
a  splendid  impulse  to  goodness,  would  you  refuse  me  ? 
{She  watches  him  very  closely ;  he  watches  her,  half 
deprecating,  half  consenting ;  she  goes  up  a  step  or  two  ; 
he  again  makes  a  deprecating  gesture,  but  does  not  stop 
her.^  Can't  you  see  what  an  awful  effect  it  would 
have  on  me  if  you  thought  me  worthy  to  be  in  the 
company  of  your  good  angel?  It  would  be  almost 
a  sacrament !  (  Going  up  steps.  He  makes  a  stronger 
gesture  of  deprecation.)  Ah,  you  think  I'm  not 
worthy 

Mich.     No,  no 


ACTi  MICHAEL  AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL  29 

AuDR.  {o7i  fop  of  steps,  very  seductively).  Do  save 
me.  I'm  worth  saving.  {Whispers.)  I  may  kiss 
her?  I  may?  I  may?  {He  does  not  reply.  She 
very  reverently  kisses  the  picture  on  the  wall,  turns 
round,  comes  down  slowly  to  him.)  Your  bad  angel 
has  kissed  your  good  angel.  {A  mock  cttrtsey  to 
hitn.) 

{Exit  softly.     Michael  stands  troubled.) 

Curtain. 

{Four  months  pass  between  Acts  I.  and  II.) 


ACT   II 

Scene.  —  The  Shrine  on  Saint  Decuman' s  Island  in 
the  Bristol  Channel.  A  living  room  built  round 
the  shrine  of  the  Saint,  a  fine  piece  of  decayed 
Decorated  Gothic  now  in  the  back  wall  of  the  room. 
A  large  fireplace  down  right.  A  door  above  fireplace. 
A  door  left ;  two  windows,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
shrine,  show  the  sea  with  the  horizon  line  a?id  the 
sky  above.  A  bookcase  ;  a  table  ;  old  oaken  panelling, 
about  seven  feet  high,  all  round  the  room,  and  above 
them  white-washed  tualls.  Red  brick  floor.  Every- 
thing very  rude  and  simple,  and  yet  tasteful,  as  if  it 
had  been  done  by  the  village  mason  and  carpenter 
under  Michael's  direction.  Time,  a  September  even- 
ing. Discover  Andrew  Gibbard  packing  a  port- 
manteau, andY^mkRV)  Lashmar  (Father  Hilary), 
a  Catholic  priest,  about  sixty,  very  dignified  and 
refined.     Enter  Withycombe,  an  old  boatman. 

Withy.     Now,  gentlemen,  if  yu'me  ready  to  start ! 
If  yu  daunt  come  sune,  us  shall  lose  the  tide  down. 

Father  H.    I'm  quite  ready,  Withycombe,  as  soon 
as  I  have  said  "  Good-bye  "  to  Mr.  Feversham. 
30 


ACT  II  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  31 

Withy.  Mr.  Feversham  ain't  coming  along  with  us, 
then? 

Andr.  No,  he  stays  on  the  island  all  the  week,  and 
you  are  to  fetch  him  on  Saturday  morning. 

Withy.  Saturday  morning.  To-day's  Wednesday. 
Right  you  are.  Well  and  good.  Saturday  morning. 
Yu'me  coming  on  to  Saint  Margaret's  along  with  us, 
Mr.  Gibbard? 

Andr.  Yes  —  we  can  find  some  accommodation 
there  for  the  night,  can't  we  ? 

Withy.    Well,  I  warn  ye  'tis  rough. 

Father  H.  Rougher  than  my  Master  had  on  his 
first  coming  here  ? 

Withy.  Well,  I  waun't  say  that,  but  so  fur  as  I  can 
judge  'tis  about  as  rough. 

Father  H.  Then  it  will  do  for  me.  Where  is  Mr. 
Feversham  ? 

Withy.  A  few  minutes  agone  he  wor  watching  the 
excursion  steamer  back  to  Lowburnham. 

Father  H.  Will  you  find  him  and  tell  him  that  I 
am  waiting  to  start  ? 

Withy.     Right  you  are,  sir.     Well  and  good. 

{Exit.) 

Father  H.  Andrew  —  have  you  noticed  any  change 
in  Mr.  Feversham  lately? 

Andr.     Change,  Father? 

Father  H.  He  seems  so  restless  and  disturbed,  so 
unlike  himself. 

Andr.     Does  he? 


32  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  ii 

Father  H.  It's  six  years  since  I  was  in  England. 
But  he  was  always  so  calm  and  concentrated.  Has  he 
any  trouble,  do  you  know? 

Andr.     He  hasn't  spoken  of  any. 

Father  H.  No.  But  you're  with  him  constantly. 
Surely  you  must  have  seen  the  difference  in  him  ? 

Andr.     Yes.     He  has  changed. 

Father  H.     How  long  has  he  been  like  this  ? 

Andr.     The  last  four  months. 

Father  H.     Do  you  know  of  any  reason  for  it? 

Andr.     He's  coming  ! 

Enter  Michael. 

Mich.     You're  ready  to  start,  Uncle  Ned? 

Father  H.  Yes.  You  won't  change  your  mind 
and  come  with  us  ? 

Mich.  No,  I  must  stay  here.  (  Glancing  at  books, 
restlessly.^  I  want  to  be  alone.  I  couldn't  be  of  any 
service  to  you  over  at  Saint  Margaret's? 

Father  H.  There  is  the  legend  that  connects  her 
with  Saint  Decuman — I  suppose  no  more  is  to  be 
learnt  of  that  than  we  already  know  ? 

Mich.  No.  The  fisher  people  only  know  what 
they  have  learnt  from  the  guide  books. 

Andr.  {statiding  with  portmanteaii) .  Have  you 
anything  more  to  take  to  the  boat,  Father? 

Father  H.     No,  that's  all,  Andrew. 

Andr.  Then  I'll  take  it  down  and  wait  for  you 
there.  (^Exit  Andrew  with  portmanteau^ 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  33 

Father  H.     Then  this  is  good-bye,  Michael? 

Mich.  Unless  you'll  stay  over  the  Sunday  at  Cleve- 
heddon  ? 

Father  H.  No,  I've  done  my  work  in  England, 
and  I  must  be  back  among  my  people.  I  wanted  to 
see  the  shrines  on  these  two  sister  islands  again  before 
I  died.  I  shall  leave  Saint  Margaret's  to-morrow 
morning,  get  back  to  Cleveheddon,  take  the  after- 
noon train  up  to  London,  and  leave  for  Italy  on  Friday 
morning.     You'll  come  and  see  me  at  Majano? 

Mich.     When  I  can. 

Father  H.     This  winter? 

Mich.  No,  not  this  winter.  I  shall  be  at  work  at 
once  on  the  restorations  now  I've  got  all  the  money. 

Father  H.  Strange  that  it  should  all  come  so  soon 
within  two  or  three  months. 

Mich.  Yes,  and  from  such  different  quarters  of 
England  —  a  thousand  one  day  from  Manchester  — 
five  hundred  the  next  from  some  unheard-of  village  — 
and  then  the  last  great  final  gift  last  week. 

Father  H.  It  looks  as  if  it  all  came  from  one 
giver  ? 

Mich.     Yes,  I  had  thought  that. 

Father  H.     You  don't  know  of  any  one  ? 

Mich.  I've  one  or  two  suspicions.  However, 
the  great  fact  is  that  I  have  it  all,  and  can  set  my 
architects  to  work. 

Father  H.  Michael  —  I  was  asking  Andrew  just 
now,  there  is  something  troubling  you? 


34  MICHAEL  AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL         act  li 

Mich.     No  —  no.     What  makes  you  think  that  ? 

Father  H.  You  are  not  yourself.  {Pause.)  Is  it 
anything  where  I  can  be  of  help  ? 

Mich.  There  is  nothing.  {Pause.)  There  has 
been  something.  But  it  is  past.  (Father  Hilary 
looks  grave.)     You  need  have  no  fear  for  me. 

{Holding  out  hand.) 

Father  H,  {takes  his  hand,  holds  it  for  a  long 
while,  looks  gravely  at  him).  If  you  should  ever 
need  a  deeper  peace  than  you  can  find  within  or 
around  you,  come  to  me  in  Italy. 

Mich.  But  I  am  at  peace  now.  {Restlessly,  push- 
ing his  hand  through  hair,  then  a  little  querulously.) 
I  am  at  peace  now.  (Father  Hilary  shakes  his 
head.)  You  think  you  can  give  me  that  deeper 
peace  ? 

Father  H.     I  know  I  can. 

Mich.     I  may  come  to  you  some  day. 

(WiTHYCOMBE/z^i!f  Ms  head  in  at  door ^ 

Withy.  Now,  sir,  if  yu  plaise,  we'me  losing  the 
tide  —  us  shan't  get  to  Margaret's  avore  supper-time. 

Father  H.     I'm  coming,  Withycombe. 

Mich.  Withycombe,  you'll  come  and  fetch  me  on 
Saturday  morning. 

Withy.  Saturday  morning,  twelve  o'clock  sharp, 
I'm  here.  Right  you  are,  Mr.  Feversham.  Well  and 
good.  {Exit.) 

Father  H.     Good-bye. 

Mich.     Good-bye,  Uncle  Ned. 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  35 

(  Ve7y  heafiy  hand-shake.  Exit  Father  Hilary. 
Michael  goes  to  door,  stands  looking  a  few 
seconds,  cotnes  in,  turns  to  his  books.) 

Re-enter  Father  Hilary. 

Mich.     What  is  it? 

Father  H.  I  don't  like  leaving  you.  Come  with 
me  to-night  to  Margaret's. 

Mich.  Shall  I  ?  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  —  Wait 
a  minute. 

Withy,  {voice  heard  of).  Now,  Mr.  Lashmar,  if 
you  plaise,  sir  —  we'me  losing  the  tide. 

Mich.     Don't  wait,  I'm  safe  here.     Good-bye. 

Father  H.  {slowly  and  regretfully).     Good-bye. 
{Exit  slowly.     Michael  watches  Father  Hilary 
off ;   stays  at  door  for  some  tijne,  waves  his 
hand,  then  closes  door.) 

Mich.  Now  I  shall  be  at  peace  !  ( Takes  oict  letter 
from  his  pocket.)  Her  letter  !  I  will  not  read  it ! 
{Puts  it  back  in  pocket,  kneels  and  lights  the  fire.) 
Why  did  you  come  into  my  hfe?  I  did  not  seek 
you  !  You  came  unbidden,  and  before  I  was  aware 
of  it  you  had  unlocked  the  holiest  places  of  my  heart. 
Your  skirts  have  swept  through  all  the  gateways  of  my 
being.  There  is  a  fragrance  of  you  in  every  cranny 
of  me.  You  possess  me !  {Rises.)  No !  No ! 
No  !  I  will  not  yield  to  you  !  (  Takes  up  book,  seats 
himself  at  fire,  reads  a  moment  or  two.)  You  are 
there  in  the  fire  !     Your  image  plays  in  the  shadows 


36  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         ACT  il 

—  Oh,  my  light  and  my  fire,  will  you  burn  me  up  with 
love  for  you  ?  {Rises,  sighs.)  I'm  mad  !  {Pause,  very 
resohiiely.)  I  will  be  master  of  myself — I  will  be 
servant  to  none  save  my  work  and  my  God  !  {Seats 
hijnself  resolutely,  reads  a  7)io7nent  or  tivo,  then  drops 
book  on  knees.)  The  wind  that  blows  round  here  may 
perhaps  play  round  her  brow,  the  very  breath  that 
met  my  lips  as  I  stood  at  the  door  may  meet  hers  on 
the  shore  yonder.  {Rises,  flings  book  on  table,  goes  to 
window  ;  takes  out  letter  again,  holds  it  undecidedly.) 
Why  shouldn't  I  read  it  ?  Every  stroke  of  it  is  graven 
on  my  heart.  —  (  Opens  it.)  "  Dear  keeper  of  souls  in 
this  parish,  I  have  thought  so  much  of  our  talk  last 
night.  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  I  have  a  soul  after 
all,  but  it  is  a  most  uncomfortable  possession.  I 
believe  if  someone  gave  me  an  enormous  impulse  I 
might  make  a  saint  or  a  martyr,  or  anything  that's 
divine.  And  I  believe  there  is  one  man  living  who 
could  give  me  that  impulse."  "  One  man  living  who 
could  give  me  that  impulse  — "  "But  I  hope  he 
won't.  Frankly,  you  may  save  me  at  too  great  cost 
to  yourself.  So  trouble  yourself  no  further  about  me. 
But  if  after  this,  you  still  think  my  wandering,  dangling 
soul  worth  a  moment  of  your  ghostly  care,  come  and 
lunch  with  me  to-morrow,  and  I  will  give  you  the 
sweet  plain  butter-cakes  that  you  love,  on  the  old  blue 
china.  And  that  our  salvation  may  not  be  too  easy,  I 
will  tempt  you  with  one  sip  of  the  ancient  Johannis- 
burg."     And  I  went  —  yes,  I  went.     "But  for  your 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  37 

own  sake  —  I  speak  with  all  a  woman's  care  for  your 
earthly  and  heavenly  welfare  —  I  would  rather  you  did 
not  come.  Let  it  be  so.  Let  this  be  farewell.  Per- 
haps our  souls  may  salute  each  other  in  aimless 
vacancy  hereafter,  and  I  will  smile  as  sweet  a  smile 
as  I  can  without  lips  or  cheeks  to  smile  with,  when 
I  remember  as  I  pass  you  in  the  shades  that  I  saved 
you  from  your  bad  angel,  Audrie  Lesden.  P.S.  Be 
wise  and  let  me  go."  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  Yet  if 
I  do  not — what  remains  for  me?  Torture,  hopeless 
love,  neglected  duty,  work  cast  aside  and  spoilt,  all 
my  life  disordered  and  wrecked.  Oh,  if  I  could  be 
wise  —  I  will !  I  will  tear  out  this  last  one  dear  sweet 
thought  of  her.  ( Goes  to  fire,  tears  up  the  letter  in 
little  pieces,  watches  them  l>urn.)  It's  done  !  I've 
conquered  !     Now  I  shall  be  at  peace. 

(^Stts  himself  resolutely  at  table,  reads.  A  little 
tap  at  the  door,  he  shows  surprise  ;  the  tap  is 
repeated,  he  rises,  goes  to  door,  opens  it.  At 
that  tnoment  Audrie's  face  appears  at  the 
right-hand  window  for  a  moment.  He  looks 
out,  stays  there  a  moment  or  two,  closes  door, 
seats  hi >n self  again  at  table,  reads.  The  tap 
is  repeated ;  he  rises,  Audrie  appears  at  door, 
he  shows  a  moment  of  intense  delight  which 
he  quickly  subdues. 
AuDR.  May  I  come  in?  {Paiise.)  You  are  busy 
-  I'll  go - 

Mich,    No — {She  stops  on  threshold.)     Come  in. 


38  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  n 

She  enters.     He  statids   motionless   at  table.     Sunset 
without.     It  gradually  grows  darker. 

Mich.     What  brings  you  here  ? 

AuDR.  You  did  not  expect  me.  You  aren't  accus- 
tomed to  entertain  angels  unawares  —  even  bad  ones. 

Mich.  {Jiis  voice  thick  and  a  little  hoa7-se).  Your 
boat,  your  companions  ? 

AuDR.     I  have  no  boat,  and  no  companions. 

Mich,  {horrified,  delighted).     You're  alone? 

AuDR.     Quite  alone. 

Mich.     How  did  you  come  here  ? 

AuDR.  By  the  simplest  and  most  prosaic  means 
in  the  world.  This  morning  I  took  the  train  to  Low- 
burnham  to  do  some  shopping.  As  I  was  coming 
back  to  the  station,  a  boy  put  this  little  handbill  into 
my  hand.  {Showi?ig  a  little  yellow  handbill.)  After- 
noon excursion  to  Saint  Decuman's  and  Saint  Marga- 
ret's Isles.  I  had  an  impulse  —  I  obeyed  it.  I  tele- 
graphed to  Cleveheddon  for  a  boat  to  meet  me  here 
at  six —  {takes  out  watch)  — it  only  wants  ten  min- 
utes—  and  took  the  excursion  steamer.  They  all 
landed  here  for  half-an-hour.  I  hid  myself  till  after 
the  steamer  had  gone.  Then  I  came  up  here  to  your 
cottage.  I  heard  some  voices,  so  I  hid  again  —  who 
was  here  ? 

Mich.     Only  my  secretary  and  my  uncle  Ned. 

AuDR.  The  Catholic  priest.  I  saw  a  boat  leaving 
—  it  was  they  ? 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  39 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.     They're  not  coming  back? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.     You're  annoyed  with  me  for  coming? 

Mich.     No,  but  wasn't  it  a  Httle  —  imprudent  ? 

AuDR.  Oh,  I  must  do  mad  things  sometimes,  just 
to  preserve  my  general  balance  of  sanity.  Besides, 
my  boat  will  be  here  in  ten  minutes.  {Paj^se.) 

AuDR.     How  strange  we  should  be  here  alone  ! 

Mich.     The  only  two  beings  on  this  island  —  we  two  ! 

AuDR.     And  our  two  souls. 

Mich.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  jest  with  sacred  things. 

AuDR.  I  won't.  {Suddenly,  impulsively.)  I  want 
to  be  good  !  Help  me  to  be  good  !  You  think  I'm 
foolish  and  light  and  frivolous  !  Well,  perhaps  I  am, 
but  when  I'm  with  you  I'm  capable  of  anything, 
anything  —  except  being  an  ordinary,  average,  good 
woman. 

Mich.  But  isn't  that  all  that  is  required  of  a 
woman  ? 

AuDR.  Perhaps.  It's  rather  a  damnable  heritage, 
isn't  it?     And  I'm  not  a  barn-door  fowl. 

Mich.     What  are  you  ? 

AuDR.  Just  what  you  like  to  make  of  me.  Don't 
think  I'm  flattering  you.  Don't  think  I'm  bold  and 
unwomanly.  I'm  only  speaking  the  truth.  You  have 
changed  me.  I'm  ready  to  do  anything,  beheve  any- 
thing, suffer  anything  that  you  bid  me  !  To-night  I'm 
on  a  pinnacle  !     I  shall  either  be  snatched  up  to  the 


40  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         ACT  ii 

skies,  or  tumble  into  the  abyss.  Which  will  it  be,  I 
wonder  ? 

Mich,  {^aftet-  a  struggle,  in  a  calm  voice).  Neither, 
I  trust.  I  hope  you  will  take  your  boat  back  in  ten 
minutes,  have  a  good  passage  across,  a  comfortable 
dinner  from  your  pretty  blue  china,  and  a  sound 
night's  rest.  And  to-morrow  you  will  wake  and  forget 
this  rather  imprudent  freak. 

AuDR.  Oh,  you  won't  tread  the  clouds  with  me  ! 
Very  well !  Down  to  the  earth  we  come.  I  can  be 
as  earthly  as  the  very  clay  itself.  But  I  thought  you 
wanted  me  to  be  spiritual. 

Mich.     I  want  you  to  be  sincere,  to  be  yourself. 

AuDR.  Very  well.  Tell  me  how.  You  are  my 
ghostly  father. 

Mich.  No,  you've  never  allowed  me  to  be  a  priest 
to  you. 

AuDR.     I've  never  allowed  you? 

Mich.     And  I've  never  dared. 

AuDR.     Why  not? 

Mich.  Because  you've  never  allowed  me  to  forget 
that  I  am  a  man. 

AuDR.  Very  well.  Don't  be  a  priest  to  me  —  at 
least  not  now.  Tell  me  some  one  thing  that  you 
would  wish  me  to  do,  and  I'll  do  it ! 

Mich.     In  that  letter  you  wrote  me 

AuDR.     Did  you  keep  it  ? 

Mich.     No,  I  destroyed  it. 

AuDR.     Destroyed  it  ! 


ACT  11         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  41 

Mich,  In  that  letter  you  said  it  would  be  better 
for  us  if  we  did  not  meet  again 

AuDR.  No.  I  said  it  would  be  better  for  you  if 
we  did  not  meet  again. 

Mich.     Better  for  me  ? 

AuDR.  Yes,  and  worse  for  me.  I  came  here  to- 
night to  warn  you 

Mich.     Against  what? 

AuDR.  Myself.  I've  done  something  that  may 
endanger  your  peace  for  ever. 

Mich.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

AuDR.  Sometimes  I  laugh  at  it,  sometimes  I'm 
frightened.  I  daren't  tell  you  what  I've  done.  I'll 
go.  {Goes  to  door,  opens  it.) 

Mich.  No.  {Stops  he f.)  Mrs.  Lesden,  what  have 
you  done  against  me  ?  You  don't  mean  your  gifts  to 
the  Minster? 

AuDR.     My  gifts  —  what  gifts? 

Mich.  During  the  last  four  months  I've  constantly 
received  large  sums  for  the  restoration  of  the  Minster, 
and  last  week  a  very  large  sum  was  sent  me,  enough 
to  carry  out  all  the  work  just  as  I  wished. 

AuDR.     Well? 

Mich.     It  was  you  who  sent  it  all. 

AuDR.     I  must  see  if  my  boatman  has  come. 

Mich,  {stopping  her) .  No.  Why  did  you  send  the 
money  —  so  many  different  sums  from  so  many  differ- 
ent places  ? 

AuDR.    Because  that  gave  me  dozens  of  pleasures 


42  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  ii 

instead  of  one,  in  sending  it.  And  I  thought  it  would 
give  you  dozens  of  pleasures  instead  of  one,  in  re- 
ceiving it. 

Mich.  I  knew  it  was  you  !  How  glad  I  am  to  owe 
it  all  to  you  !  Words  couldn't  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am. 

AuDR.  And  yet  you  wouldn't  walk  the  clouds  with 
me  for  a  few  minutes  ? 

Mich.  You  know  that  I  would  do  anything  in  my 
power  for  your  best,  your  heavenly  welfare. 

AuDR.  I  don't  think  1  care  much  for  my  heavenly 
welfare  just  at  this  moment.  You  tumbled  me  off  my 
pinnacle,  and  here  I  am  stuck  in  the  mud.  (^Looking 
off  at  the  open  door.)  Look  !  That  boat  is  half-way 
to  Saint  Margaret's. 

Mich.     Yes,  they  sleep  there  to-night, 

AuDR.  What  a  queer-looking  man  your  secretary 
is.     Is  he  quite  trustworthy? 

Mich.     Quite.     Why  ? 

AuDR.  I  caught  him  looking  at  you  in  a  very 
strange  way  a  week  or  two  back. 

Mich.     He's  devoted  to  me. 

AuDR.  I'm  glad  of  that.  How  far  is  it  to  Saint 
Margaret's  ? 

Mich.     Three  miles. 

AuDR.  Do  you  believe  the  legend  about  Saint 
Decuman  and  Saint  Margaret? 

Mich.     That  they  loved  each  other  ? 

AuDR.    Yes,  on  separate  islands,  and  never  met. 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  43 

Mich.  They  denied  themselves  love  here  that  they 
might  gain  heavenly  happiness  hereafter. 

AuDR.  Now  that  their  hearts  have  been  dust  all 
these  hundreds  of  years,  what  good  is  it  to  them  that 
they  denied  themselves  love? 

Mich.     You  think 

AuDR.  I  think  a  Httle  love  on  this  earth  is  worth  a 
good  many  paradises  hereafter.  It's  a  cold  world, 
hereafter.  It  chills  me  to  the  bone  when  I  think  of 
it  !  {Shivers  a  Httle  and  eomes  away  fro  tn  the  door.) 
I'm  getting  a  little  cold. 

Mich,  {placing  chair).     Sit  by  the  fire. 

{She  sits  near  fire,  which  is  blazing  up;  he  goes 
and  closes  door.) 

AuDR.  {putting  on  some  logs) .  Do  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  make  your  fire  for  you  ? 

Mich.     I  hope  so. 

{She  sits ;  he  stands  above  her  for  some  seconds, 
watching  her  keenly  ;  a  long  pause ^ 

AuDR.  You  were  looking  at  me.  What  were  you 
thinking  of? 

Mich.  I  was  wondering  what  memories  are  stored 
in  that  white  forehead. 

AuDR.  Memories?  {Long  sigh.)  A  few  bright 
ones,  and  many  sad  ones. 

Mich.     Your  past  life  was  not  happy  ? 

AuDR.  {a  little  shudder  of  recollection).  No.  And 
yours  ?    Tell  me 

Mich.     What? 


44  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  ii 

AuDR.  Something  about  your  past  life,  something 
you've  never  told  to  a  living  creature. 

Mich.     When  I  was  twenty 

AuDR.  Stay  —  what  were  you  like  when  you  were 
twenty?  {Shuts  her  eyes,  puis  her  hand  over  them.) 
Now  I  can  see  you  when  you  were  twenty. 

Mich.     Is  there  anyone  with  me  ? 

AuDR.  No,  I  can't  see  her.  What  was  she  like? 
Fair  or  dark? 

Mich.  Fair,  with  changing  grey  eyes  that  could  be 
serious  or  merry  as  she  pleased,  and  fine  clear  features, 
and  the  sweetest  provoking  mouth 

AuDR.     I  hate  her.     Who  was  she  ? 

Mich.  Miss  Standerwick's  niece.  She  stayed  there 
all  the  summer  that  year. 

AuDR.     Was  that  a  happy  summer  ? 

Mich.     The  happiest  I  have  ever  known  —  till  this. 

AuDR.     Ah ! 

Mich.  I  used  to  go  to  evening  church  and  follow 
them  home,  and  wait  outside  till  I  could  see  the 
candle  in  her  window.  When  it  went  out  I  used  to 
walk  home. 

AuDR.  Across  those  fields  where  we  walked  the 
other  night  ? 

Mich.    Yes. 

AuDR.     I'll  never  walk  that  way  again.     Go  on. 

Mich.  One  night  as  I  was  waiting,  she  came  out 
suddenly.  I  couldn't  speak  for  trembling.  At  last  I 
found  my  tongue,  and  we  talked  about  silly  common- 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  45 

place  things.  When  she  was  going  in  I  dared  to 
breathe,  "Give  me  one  kiss."  She  didn't  answer.  I 
just  touched  her  cheek  with  my  lips,  and  I  whispered, 
"  Good-night,  Nelly."     She  said,  "  Good-night,  Mike." 

AuDR.     She  called  you  Mike  ? 

Mich.     I  was  called  Mike  when  I  was  a  boy. 

AuDR.     And  your  next  meeting  ? 

Mich.  She  was  called  away  early  the  next  morning 
to  her  father's  deathbed.  Her  mother  went  abroad. 
I  never  saw  her  again.  Tell  me  something  about 
your  past  life. 

AuDR.  Can  you  see  me  when  I  was  eight  ?  I  was 
a  pretty  little  brown  maid,  and  I  set  all  aflame  the 
heart  of  a  cherub  aged  ten,  with  strong  fat  legs  and 
curly  red  hair.  His  sister  was  my  dearest  friend. 
He  spent  all  his  pocket-money  in  buying  sugar-plums 
for  me,  and  gave  them  to  her  to  give  to  me.  She  ate 
them  herself,  and  slandered  me  to  him,  for  she  said  I 
was  false.  He  kicked  her  on  the  nose,  and  was  sent 
far  —  far  away  to  school.  This  was  the  first  tragedy 
of  my  life.  Now  tell  me  some  more  of  your  life. 
You  have  had  other  romances,  darker,  deeper  ones? 

Mich.     Nothing  that  I  dare  show.     I  have  told  you 

of  the  one  love  of  my  youth.     And  you Have 

you  had  darker,  deeper  romances  ? 

AuDR.  I  was  unhappy  without  romance.  I  would 
show  you  all  my  heart,  all  my  thoughts,  all  my  life,  if 
I  could  do  it  as  one  shows  a  picture,  and  let  it  speak 
for  itself.     I  wonder  if  you'd  condemn  me 


46  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  ii 

Mich.     Condemn  you  ! 

AuDR.     I  don't  think  you  would.     You  have  never 

guessed 

Mich.     Guessed 


AuDR.  What  a  world  there  is  within  oneself  that 
one  never  dares  speak  of!  I  wish  to  hide  nothing 
from  you.  I  would  have  you  know  me  through  and 
through  for  just  the  woman  that  I  am,  just  that  and 
no  other,  because,  don't  you  see  —  I  don't  want  to 
cheat  you  of  a  farthing's-worth  of  esteem  on  false 
pretences  —  I  want  you  to  like  me,  Audrie  Lesden, 
and  not  some  myth  of  your  imagination.  But  if  you 
were  armed  with  all  the  tortures  of  hell  for  plucking 
the  truth  about  myself  from  my  lips,  I  should  still 
hide  myself  from  you.  So,  guess,  guess,  guess, 
grand  inquisitor  —  what  is  here  {^tapping  her  fore- 
head^ and  here  !  {^Putting  her  hand  on  her 
heart. ^  You'll  never  guess  one  thousandth  part  of 
the  truth  ! 

Mich.  But  tell  me  something  in  your  past  life  that 
you  have  never  told  to  another  creature. 

AuDR.  I  have  two  great  secrets — one  is  about 
yourself,  one  is  about  another  man. 

Mich.     Myself  ?     Another  man  ? 

AuDR.     My  husband. 

Mich.     You  said  you  had  been  unhappy. 

AuDR.  I  married  as  thousands  of  girls  do,  care- 
lessly, thoughtlessly.  I  was  married  for  my  money. 
No  one  had  ever  told  me  that  love  was  sacred. 


ACT  n         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  47 

Mich.  Nobody  ever  does  tell  us  that,  till  we  hear 
it  from  our  own  hearts. 

AuDR.  I  suppose  it  was  my  own  fault.  I  was  very 
well  punished. 

Mich.     How  long  were  you  married  ? 

AuDR.     Two  years. 

Mich.     And  then  your  husband  died? 

AuDR.  He  went  away  from  me.  I  never  saw  him 
again  —  alive.  {Fassw7iately.)  And  there's  an  end 
of  him  ! 

Mich.  I  won't  ask  you  what  that  secret  is.  I 
would  wish  you  to  keep  it  sacred.  But  your  secret 
about  myself  ?     Surely  I  may  ask  that  ? 

AuDR.     I  have  sold  you  to  the  devil. 

Mich.     What  ? 

AuDR.     I  have  sold  myself,  too. 

Mich.     Still  jesting  ? 

AuDR.     No,  I  did  it  in  real,  deep  earnest. 

Mich.     I  don't  understand  you. 

AuDR.  Six  months  ago  I  was  tired,  gnawn  to  the 
very  heart  with  ennui,  and  one  hot  restless  night  I 
happened  to  take  up  your  book,  '*  The  Hidden  Life." 
It  came  to  me  —  oh,  like  a  breath  of  the  purest,  fresh- 
est air  in  a  fevered  room.  I  thought  I  should  like  to 
know  you.  I  got  up  early,  took  the  first  morning 
train  down  here,  looked  about  the  place,  saw  the 
Island  House  was  to  let,  and  rented  it  for  three  years. 

Mich.    Well? 

AuDR.     I  got  Mr.  Docwray  to  give  me  an  introduc- 


48  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  n 

tion  to  you.  You  annoyed  me,  you  were  so  cold  and 
priestlike.  Each  time  I  saw  you,  you  piqued  and 
angered  me  more  and  more.  I  longed  to  get  some 
power  over  you.  At  last  one  day  after  you  had  been 
so  frozen  and  distant  a  little  black  imp  jumped  into 
my  brain  and  whispered  to  me.  I  said  to  the  devil, 
"  Give  this  sculptured  saint  to  me,  and  I'll  give  both 
our  souls  to  you." 

Mich.     But  you  didn't  mean  it? 

AuDR.  Yes.  I  said  it  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  bit 
my  arm  —  look  —  (^Shoiving  her  arm.')  I  made  the 
teeth  meet.  There's  the  mark.  If  there  is  a  devil, 
he  heard  me. 

Mich.     And  you  think  he  has  given  me  to  you  ? 

AuDR.  The  next  time  I  saw  you,  you  let  me  kiss 
your  mother's  portrait. 

Mich.     Ah ! 

AuDR.  But  you  don't  really  believe  there  is  a 
devil?  Why  don't  you  speak?  Why  don't  you  laugh 
at  me  and  tell  me  it's  all  nonsense  ?  I  haven't  really 
given  the  devil  power  over  your  soul? 

Mich.  No  devil  has  any  power  over  any  soul  of 
man  until  the  man  himself  first  gives  him  entrance 
and  consent. 

AuDR.  And  you  haven't !  Say  you  don't  care  for 
me. 

Mich.     How  can  I  say  that? 

AuDR.  You  must !  I'm  not  strong  enough  to  leave 
you  of  my  own  free  will.     I  shall  hang  about  you, 


ACT  n         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  49 

worry  you,  tease  you,  tempt  you,  and  at  last,  destroy 
you.  Don't  let  me  do  it !  Beat  me  away  from  you, 
insult  me,  do  something  to  make  me  hate  you  1  Make 
me  leave  you  ! 

Mich.     When  I  love  you  with  all  my  being? 

AuDR.  {shows  great  delight).  And  you  dare  go 
on  ?  It's  an  awful  delight  to  think  that  a  man  would 
dare  to  risk  hell  for  one  !  There  aren't  many  men 
who  would  dare  lose  this  world  for  the  woman  they 
love  —  how  many  men  are  there  that  would  dare  to 
lose  the  other? 

Mich.  We  must  lose  this  world,  for  I  am  vowed 
away  from  all  earthly  things.  But  why  should  we  lose 
the  other?  Why  should  we  not  make  our  love  the 
lever  to  raise  our  souls  ?    You  do  love  me  ? 

AuDR.  Love  is  hardly  the  word.  It  is  more  like 
—  if  a  man  could  create  a  dog,  and  be  her  master, 
friend,  father,  and  God,  I  think  she  would  feel  towards 
him  something  of  what  I  feel  towards  you.  You  have 
first  made  me  know  what  love  is,  what  life  is.  You 
have  changed  me  thoroughly  —  no,  you  have  changed 
half  of  me  thoroughly  —  one  half  is  still  worthless, 
silly,  capricious,  hollow,  worldly,  and  bad  —  that's  my 
old  self.  She  is  gradually  withering  up  under  your 
influence,  that  old  Audrie  Lesden.  The  other  half  is 
looking  out  of  my  eyes  at  you  now  !  Look  !  do  you 
see  the  new  Audrie  Lesden  that  is  your  daughter  and 
your  creature?     Aren't  you  proud  of  her? 

Mich.     I  shall  be  proud  of  her  when  she  is  full 


50  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  ii 

grown  and  dares  to  leave  me  of  her  own  free  will, 
because  she  loves  me,  and  because  I  am  vowed  to 
Heaven  ! 

AuDR.  Do  I  tempt  you?  I'll  go.  You  love  me. 
That's  enough,  or  it  should  be  enough.  I'll  get  back 
to  j-ondon  to-morrow,  and  strangle  the  new  Audrie. 
Then  the  old  Audrie  will  come  back  again,  and  live 
the  old  weary,  dry,  empty  life  —  and  grow  old  and 
wrinkled  and  heartless  and  perhaps  —  rouged 

Mich.  Why  do  you  tear  me  so?  What  do  you 
want  of  me  here  or  hereafter?  Take  it!  It's 
yours 


AuDR.     You  dare  go  on  —  now  you  know  ? 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.  Ah  !  I  thought  it  was  only  women  who 
dared  hell  for  love.  I  won't  take  your  sacrifice  —  I 
will  leave  you. 

Mich.  You  will  ?  Yes,  it  must  be  so  !  My  work, 
my  vows  —  I  cannot,  may  not  taste  of  earthly  love. 
Oh,  it's  cruel  to  dash  the  cup  from  my  lips  !  {Pause ; 
then  very  calmly.)  You  are  right  !  I  feel  that  we  are 
choosing  heaven  or  hell  for  both  our  souls  this  night ! 
Help  me  to  choose  heaven  for  you,  and  I'll  help  you 
to  choose  heaven  for  me. 

AuDR.  Good-bye,  my  love,  for  ever.  Be  brave  — 
and  very  cold  to  me,  now.  Be  like  marble  —  and 
death. 

Mich,  {takes  her  hand ;  a  very  long  pause;  then 
speaks  very  calmly) .     It  is  victory,  isn't  it  ?     We  have 


ACT  II         MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  51 

conquered?  I'll  go  down  to  the  bay  and  see  if  your 
boat  has  come.         {^By  this  time  it  is  dark  outside.^ 

AuDR.  Half-past  six.  I  shall  have  a  cold,  dark 
voyage. 

Mich.  And  it  is  just  a  little  rough.  But  Hannaford 
is  a  careful  boatman. 

AuDR.  It's  not  Hannaford  who  is  coming  for  me. 
I  telegraphed  for  Withycombe. 

Mich,  {pause — very  pale  afid  cold).  Withycombe? 
But  you  always  employ  Hannaford  ? 

AuDR.  Yes ;  and  I  did  write  out  one  telegram  to 
him,  and  then  I  thought  I  should  like  to  go  back  in 
the  boat  that  always  takes  you.  So  I  tore  up  the 
telegram  to  Hannaford,  and  telegraphed  to  Withy- 
combe. 

Mich.     Withycombe  ? 

AuDR.     Yes,  what's  the  matter? 

Mich.  He  lives  alone.  When  he  goes  out,  he 
locks  up  his  cottage.  Your  telegram  will  wait  at  the 
post  office. 

AuDR.     Why  ? 

Mich.  Withycombe  has  gone  over  to  Saint  Mar- 
garet's with  Gibbard  and  my  uncle.  They  stay  there 
the  night. 

AuDR.     Your  own  boat? 

Mich.  I  had  it  towed  back  last  week,  so  that  I 
couldn't  be  tempted  to  come  to  you. 

AuDR.     Then ? 

Mich,  {looks  at  her).     No  boat  will  come  to-night. 


52  MICHAEL  AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL         act  ll 

{Looks   at  her   more  intejitly.)     No  boat  will  come 
to-night ! 

{They  stand  looking  at  each  other, ^ 

Very  slow  curtain. 

{Two  nights  and  a  day — from  Wednesday  evening  to 
Friday  morning — pass  between  Acts  II.  and  III.) 


ACT   III 

Scene. —  Hie  Vicarage  parlour,  as  in  first  act.  Morn- 
ing. Enter  Michael,  hazard,  troubled,  with  self- 
absorbed  expression,  the  expression  of  a  man  trying 
to  realize  that  he  has  committed  a  great  and  irrevo- 
cable siji ;  he  stands  for  some  moments  helpless, 
dreamy,  as  if  unconscious  of  his  whereabouts  ;  theii 
looks  round ;  his  eyes  fall  upon  his  mothej''s  picture, 
he  shudders  a  little,  shows  intense  paiji.  At  length 
he  goes  up  the  steps,  takes  the  picture  down,  places  it 
on  the  floor  with  its  face  against  the  wall,  carefully 
avoiding  all  the  tvhile  to  look  at  it.  He  then  moves 
to  table  in  the  same  dreamy,  helpless,  self-absorbed 
state,  sits,  looks  in  front  of  him.  Enter  Andrew, 
comes  up  behind  him. 

Mich.     Oh,  Andrew Well  ? 

Andr.  {coming  up  to  him) .  I  want  to  consult  you 
on  that  passage  in  the  Arabic  —  if  you  can  spare  the 
time. 

Mich.  Bring  the  manuscripts  here.  (Micr^el  un- 
consciously looks  at  his  hands.)  What  are  you  looking 
at? 

53 


54  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        ACT  in 

Andr.     Nothing.     Your  hands  are  blistered? 
Mich.     I  did  a  Httle  rowing  —  the  other  day.     Bring 
the  manuscripts.  (Andrew  goes  to  door.) 

Mich.     Andrew  —  (Andrew    stops)  —  I    was   very 
restless  —  did  you  hear  me  stirring  in  the  night  ? 
Andr.     Stirring  ? 

Mich.  Yes,  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  got  up  about  one 
and  went  out  —  walked  about  for  some  hours  —  it 
was  nearly  light  when  I  came  in  again.  Did  you  hear 
me? 

Andr.  {pauses,  then  answers') .     No. 

(Is  abotit  to  go  off  at  right  door  when  Fanny 
enters  left.     He  stops.) 
Fanny.    Mrs.  Lesden  wishes  to  see  you  for  a  min- 
ute or  two  about  one  of  her  cottagers. 

(Andrew  watches  Michael  keenly,  but  unobtru- 
sively.) 
Mich,  {after  a  little  start  of  surprise,  in  a  tone  of 
affected  carelessness).     Show  her  in. 

(-fi'.r// Andrew,  right  Exit  Fanny,  left.  Michael 
rises,  shows  great  perturbation,  walks  about, 
watches  the  door  for  her  entra?ice.) 

Re-enter  Fanny,  left,  showing  in  Audrie. 
Fanny.    Mrs.  Lesden. 

{Exit  Fanny.  Michael  and  Audrie  stafid  look- 
ing at  each  other  for  some  seconds ;  then  he 
goes  to  her,  takes  her  hand,  kisses  it  with  great 
reverence,  motions   her   to  a  chair ;  she  sits. 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL 


55 


He  holds  out  to  her  the  palms  of  his  hands 
with  a  rueful  smile,  shows  they  are  fuuch  blis- 
tered as  if  with  rowing. ) 

AuDR.     Poor  hands  ! 

Mich.     I'm  not  used  to  rowing.  {Pause.) 

AuDR.     I  didn't  thank  you. 

Mich.     Thank  me  ! 

AuDR.  (pause) .  Wasn't  it  a  terrible  voyage,  terrible 
and  delightful  ?  But  we  ought  to  have  been  drowned 
together  ! 

Mich.  Oh,  don't  say  that  —  in  sin  !  To  be  lost  in 
sin  ! 

AuDR.  I'd  rather  be  lost  with  you  than  saved  with 
anyone  else. 

Mich.     You  mustn't  speak  like  this 

AuDR.  It  won't  be  right,  you  know,  unless  we  are 
lost  or  saved  together,  will  it? 

Mich.     Hush  !     Hush !  {Pause.) 

AuDR.     You're  sorry? 

Mich.     No.     And  you? 

AuDR.     No.     Is  all  safe,  do  you  think? 

Mich.     Yes,  I  believe  so. 

AuDR.  Didn't  that  strange  secretary  of  yours  think 
it  curious  that  you  came  back  on  Thursday  instead  of 
Saturday  ? 

Mich.  No.  I  explained  that  when  Withycombe 
brought  me  your  telegram  I  thought  it  better  to 
return  at  once  in  case  you  had  started  to  come,  and 
had  been  somehow  lost. 


56  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

AuDR.  Let  us  go  carefully  through  it  all  as  it  hap- 
pened, to  make  sure.  To-day  is  Friday.  On  Wednes- 
day I  telegraphed  to  Withycombe  to  be  at  the  landing- 
place  at  Saint  Decuman's  with  a  boat  at  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening  to  bring  me  back  home  from  there. 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.  But  being  a  strange  creature  and  quite  un- 
accountable for  my  actions,  I  changed  my  mind,  and 
instead  of  coming  to  Saint  Decuman's  I  went  up  to 
London,  stayed  there  all  day  yesterday,  and  returned 
by  the  night  mail,  reaching  home  at  seven  this  morning. 

Mich.     Yes. 

AuDR.  Meantime  Withycombe  has  gone  to  Saint 
Margaret's  with  your  uncle,  stays  there  Wednesday 
night  and  does  not  get  my  telegram  till  his  return 
home  yesterday  afternoon.  He  consults  my  servants, 
who  know  nothing  of  my  whereabouts,  consults  Mr, 
Gibbard,  who  advises  him  to  go  to  Saint  Decuman's 
and  see  if  I  am  there.  He  reaches  Saint  Decuman's 
last  evening.  You  are  surprised  when  he  shows  you 
the  telegram  —  you  explain  that  I'm  not  there,  that 
I  haven't  been  there,  that  you've  seen  nothing  of 
me.  (  Very  tenderly.)  Dear,  I  felt  so  sorry  for  you 
when  I  heard  you  blundering  and  stammering  through 
your  tale  to  Withycombe. 

Mich.     Why? 

AuDR.  I  knew  the  pain  and  shame  it  caused  you  to 
say  what  wasn't  true.  I  wished  I  could  have  told  all 
the  lies  for  you. 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  57 

Mich.     No,  no.     Isn't  the  truth  dear  to  you  ? 

AuDR.  Not  in  comparison  with  you.  Besides,  I 
shall  be  let  off  my  fibs  and  little  sins  very  cheaply, 
much  more  cheaply  than  you'll  be,  great  serious 
person. 

Mich.  You  grieve  me  to  the  heart  when  you  speak 
like  this 

A\TDR.  {penitent).  I  won't !  I  won't !  I'll  be  very 
good  and  quite  serious.  Where  were  we  ?  Well,  you 
explain  to  Withycombe  that  I  have  never  been  to  Saint 
Decuman's,  and  at  the  same  time  you  also  change 
your  mind  and  return  with  him  last  evening  instead 
of  staying  till  Saturday. 

Mich.  You've  seen  Withycombe  and  told  him  you 
went  to  London  ? 

AuDR.     Yes. 

Mich.     He  suspects  nothing? 

AuDR.     No,  I  made  it  all  quite  clear  to  him. 

Mich.     And  your  servants? 

AuDR.  They're  used  to  my  absences.  They  think 
nothing  of  it. 

Mich.  Then  all  is  safe.  The  matter  will  never  be 
heard  of  again  —  except 

AuDR.     Except  ? 

Mich.  In  our  two  hearts,  and  in  the  High  Court 
where  such  cases  are  tried. 

( With   an    indmation    of   the   head  and  finger 
towards  heaveii.) 

AuDR.     Don't  preach,  and  —  don't  regret. 


58  MICHAEL  AND  HIS   LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

Mich.     I  won't  —  only  how  strange  it  all  is  ! 

AuDR.     What  ? 

Mich,  {quiet,  calm  voice  throughout,  smiling  a  little) . 
How  men  try  to  make  their  religion  square  with  their 
practice  !  I  was  hard,  cruelly  hard,  on  that  poor  little 
girl  of  Andrew's.  I  was  sure  it  was  for  the  good  of 
her  soul  that  she  should  stand  up  and  confess  in 
public.  But  now  it  comes  to  my  own  self,  I  make 
excuses  ;  I  hide,  and  cloak,  and  equivocate,  and  lie  — 
what  a  hypocrite  I  am  ! 

AuDR.     Ah,  you're  sorry  ! 

Mich.  No,  I'm  strangely  happy  and  —  dazed.  I 
feel  nothing,  except  my  great  joy,  and  a  curious  bitter 
amusement  in  tracing  it  all  out. 

AuDR.     Tracing  what  out  ? 

Mich.  The  hundred  little  chances,  accidents  as  we 
call  them,  that  gave  us  to  each  other.  Everything  I 
did  to  avoid  you  threw  me  at  your  feet.  I  felt  myself 
beginning  to  love  you.  I  wrote  urgently  to  Uncle 
Ned  in  Italy,  thinking  I'd  tell  him  and  that  he  would 
save  me.  He  came  —  I  couldn't  tell  him  of  you,  but 
his  coming  kept  Withycombe  from  getting  your  tele- 
gram. I  went  to  Saint  Decuman's  to  escape  from  you. 
You  were  moved  to  come  to  me.  I  sent  away  my  own 
boat  to  put  the  sea  between  us ;  and  so  I  imprisoned 
you  with  me.  Six  years  ago  I  used  all  my  influence 
to  have  the  new  lighthouse  built  on  Saint  Margaret's 
Isle  instead  of  Saint  Decuman's,  so  that  I  might  keep 
Saint  Decuman's  lonely  for  myself  and  prayer.    I  kept 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL 


59 


it  lonely  for  myself  and  you.  It  was  what  we  call  a 
chance  I  didn't  go  to  Saint  Margaret's  with  Andrew 
and  my  uncle.  It  was  what  we  call  a  chance  that  you 
telegraphed  to  my  boatman  instead  of  your  own.  If 
any  one  thing  had  gone  differently 

AuDR.  {shaking  her  head).  We  couldn't  have 
missed  each  other  in  this  world.  It's  no  use  blaming 
chance  or  fate,  or  whatever  it  is. 

Mich.  I  blame  nothing.  I  am  too  happy.  Besides, 
Chance?  Fate?  I  had  the  mastery  of  all  these 
things.  They  couldn't  have  conquered  me  if  my  own 
heart  hadn't  first  yielded.  You  mustn't  stay  here. 
{Turning  towards  her  with  great  tenderness.)  Oh, 
I'm  glad  that  no  stain  rests  upon  you  through 
me 

AuDR.  Don't  trouble  about  me.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you.     Your  character? 

Mich.  My  character  !  My  character  !  My  char- 
acter ! 

AuDR.  {glances  up  at  the  place  7uhere  the  portrait 
had  hung) .     Where  is  she  ? 

{He  points  to  the  picture  on  the  floor.) 

Mich.  I  daren't  look  at  her.  I  must  hide  it 
until 

AuDR.     Until  ? 

Mich.  Until  we  have  done  what  we  can  to  atone 
for  this. 

AuDR.     What? 

Mich.     Repent,  confess,   submit   to  any  penance 


6o  MICHAEL  AND   MIS    LOST   ANGEL       act  iii 

that  may  be  enjoined  us.  And  then  if  and  when  it 
shall  be  permitted  us  —  marriage. 

AuDR.     Marriage  ? 

Mich.  Retirement  from  all  who  know  us,  and  life- 
long consecration  of  ourselves  to  poverty  and  good 
works,  so  that  at  the  last  we  may  perhaps  win  forgive- 
ness for  what  we  have  done. 

AuDR.     Marriage  ? 

Re-enter  Andrew  tvith  manuscripts. 

Andr.  I  beg  pardon.  I  thought  Mrs.  Lesden  had 
gone.     (^Puts  manuscripts  on  table  a?td  is  going  off. ) 

AuDR.     I  am  just  going,  Mr.  Gibbard. 

Andr.  i^turns  and  speaks  to  her).  I  met  a 
stranger  on  the  beach  yesterday  evening.  He  in- 
quired for  you  and  the  way  to  your  house. 

AuDR.     Indeed. 

Andr.  He  asked  a  great  many  questions  about 
you. 

AuDR.     What  questions? 

Andr.  How  you  lived  in  this  quiet  place,  and  who 
were  your  friends,  and  where  you  were  yesterday. 

Audr.     Did  he  give  his  name  ? 

Andr.  I  didn't  ask  for  it.  I  suppose  he's  staying 
in  the  place.  I  saw  him  at  the  door  of  the  George 
later  in  the  evening. 

Audr.  One  of  my  London  friends,  I  suppose. 
What  did  you  reply  to  his  questions  ? 

Andr.     I  told  him  Mr.  Feversham  was  one  of  your 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  6i 

friends,  but  as  I  didn't  know  where  you  were  yester- 
day, of  course  I  couldn't  tell  him,  could  I  ? 

{Looks  at  her,  exit.) 

AuDR.     Did  you  notice  that? 

Mich.     Notice  what  ? 

AuDR.  The  look  that  man  gave  me  as  he  went 
out.     Does  he  suspect  us? 

Mich.     Impossible. 

AuDR.  I  feel  sure  he  does.  Send  for  him  and 
question  him  at  once.     I'll  go. 

Enter  Fanny  with  a  letter. 

Fanny.   For  you,  ma'am. 

{Giving  letter  to  Audrie,  ivho  glances  at  it,  shows 
a   sharp,  frightened  surprise,    instantly   con- 
cealed, and  then  stands  motionless.) 
Fanny.   The  gentleman's  waiting  for  an  answer. 
AuDR.  {very  quiet,  cold  voice).     I'll  come  at  once. 

{Exit  Fanny.) 
Mich.     What's  the  matter? 

AuDR.  Nothing.  Question  that  man.  Find  out 
if  he  knows  anything.  I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  I 
can.  {Exit,  without  opening  letter.) 

Mich,  {follows  her  to  door,  closes  it  after  her,  then 
goes  to  right  door,  calls) .     Andrew. 

Re-enter  Andrew. 
Mich.     What  is   this   passage   you're  in   difficulty 
about  ? 


62  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

Andr.  iyC07nes  to  him  with  old  manuscripts) .  What's 
the  matter? 

Mich.     My  head  is  dizzy  this  morning. 

Andr.     Didn't  you  say  you  couldn't  sleep? 

Mich.  What  time  did  you  get  back  from  Saint 
Margaret's  yesterday? 

Andr.     About  twelve. 

Mich.  You  saw  my  uncle  off  by  the  afternoon 
train  ? 

Andr.     Yes. 

Mich.  And  then?  {kNUKEW  does  ttot reply.)  You 
were  surprised  to  lind  me  coming  back  with  Withy- 
combe  instead  of  staying  till  Saturday  ? 

Andr.     No. 

Mich,  Withycombe's  message  about  the  telegram 
a  little  disturbed  me.  {A  little  pause,  watching  An- 
drew.) I  thought  perhaps  Mrs.  Lesden  might  have 
started  to  come  to  Saint  Decuman's  {pause,  still  watch- 
ing Andrew),  and  been  lost  on  the  way. 

Andr.     Did  you  ? 

Mich.  She  is  such  a  strange,  flighty  creature,  that 
I  should  scarcely  be  surprised  at  anything  she  took  it 
into  her  head  to  do. 

Andr.  {looking  him  full  in  the  face) .  She  went  up 
to  London,  didn't  she  ? 

Mich,  {wincing  a  little).     Yes. 

Andr.  And  came  back  through  the  night  by  the 
mail? 

Mich.     Yes.     Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ? 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  63 

Andr.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Is  there  any  other 
question  you'd  Hke  to  ask  me? 

Mich.     Question  ?     About  what  ? 

Andr.  About  Mrs.  Lesden  —  or  anything  that's 
troubhng  you. 

Mich.  Troubhng  me?  I'm  not  troubled  about 
anything. 

Andr.     Oh  !  I  thought  perhaps  you  were.   (  Going. ) 

Mich.  Andrew.  (Andrew  stops.)  I've  been  think- 
ing about  —  about  Rose. 

Andr.     Have  you? 

Mich.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong  in  urging  her  to 
confess. 

Andr.     It  isn't  much  good  thinking  that  now,  is  it? 

Mich.  No,  except  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  and  to 
say  that  you  don't  cherish  any  ill-feeling  against  me 
on  that  account. 

Andr.  I  forgive  you,  and  I  don't  cherish  any  ill- 
feeling  against  you  on  that  or  any  account. 

Mich.     I  may  trust  you  entirely,  Andrew? 

Andr.     If  you  doubt  it  —  try  me. 

Mich.     Try  you  ? 

Andr.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  ask  me  any  question 
you  like  ? 

Mich,  {alarmed).  What  do  you  mean?  {Pause, 
looks  at  Andrew.)  Enough.  I  trust  you  absolutely 
• —  {looks  at  hint)  —  in  everything. 

Andr.     You  may.  {Is  again  going.) 

Mich.     No,  Andrew,  nothing  has  occurred  —  I  was 


64  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

afraid  —  it  seemed  so  strange  —  this  telegram  business. 
What  are  you  thinking  about  me  ? 

Andr.  Take  care,  sir.  Don't  betray  yourself  to 
anybody  but  me. 

Mich.     Betray  myself  ? 

Andr.  You're  a  worse  bungler  at  lying  than  I  was. 
Don't  look  like  that,  or  other  people  will  guess.  Don't 
give  way.  You're  safe.  Nobody  but  me  suspects 
anything.  Your  character  is  quite  safe  —  her  char- 
acter is  quite  safe.     They're  both  in  my  keeping. 

Mich,  {stares  helplessly  at  him).  How  did  you 
know? 

Andr.     I've  suspected  for  some  time  past 

Mich.  You  were  wrong.  There  was  nothing  to 
suspect.  It  was  a  chance,  an  accident  —  there  was 
no  intention  to  deceive.     What  made  you  guess  ? 

Andr.  When  Withycombe  brought  the  telegram 
to  me  I  guessed  something  was  wrong.  I  heard  you 
go  out  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  I  followed  you 
down  to  the  beach  ;  I  saw  you  put  off;  I  waited  for 
you  to  come  back.  I  was  on  the  top  of  the  cliff  just 
above  you  when  you  landed  with  her.  I  saw  you 
come  on  here,  and  I  watched  her  take  the  road  to  the 
station,  and  saw  her  come  back  to  her  home  as  if  she 
had  come  in  by  the  early  morning  train. 

Mich.    What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

Andr.  Nothing.  Don't  I  owe  everything  I  am  and 
everything  I  have  in  this  world  to  you?  I  shall  never 
breathe  a  word  of  what  I  know  to  a  living  soul, 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  65 

Mich.     Thank   you,   Andrew.     Thank   you.     And 

you'll  be  sure  above  all  that  she  is  safe 

Andr.    As  safe  as  if  I  were  in  the  grave.     You  go 
your  way,  just  the  same  as  if  I  didn't  know. 
Mich.     Andrew. 

Andr.  {co7nes  back).     Sir 

Mich,  {breaking  down) .     I  was  harsh  and  cruel  to 
Rose.     I  punished   her  more  than  she  deserved.     I 
was   a   hard,   self-righteous   priest !      I    hadn't   been 
tempted  myself  then.     Send  for  her  to  come  home 
again  !     Comfort  her  and  give  her  the  best  place  in 
your  heart.     Write  at  once.     Let  her  come  back  to- 
morrow !    Oh,  what  weak,  wretched  Pharisees  we  are  ! 
What  masks  of  hohness  we  wear  !   What  whited  sepul- 
chres we  are  !     Send  for  her  !     Make  up  to  her  for 
all  she  has  suffered  !     Let  me  ask  her  pardon  !     Oh, 
Andrew,  have  pity  on  me  !     Forgive  me,  forgive  me  ! 
(Bending  his  head  in  tears.     Andrew  steals  out 
of  the  room.    A  lo?ig  pause.     Audrie  appears 
at  window  in  the  same  place  as  in  Act  I.,  looks 
in,  sees  him,  taps  the  witidow,  he  goes  up  to  it. ) 
Audr.     Let  me  in.     Quickly.     I  want  to  speak  to 
you. 

{He  goes  to  door,  opens  it;  a  fnoment  later  she 
enters.) 
Mich.     Well  ? 

Audr.  Why  didn't  you  take  my  warning?  Why 
didn't  you  beat  me,  drive  me,  hound  me  away  from 
you  as  I  told  you  ? 

F 


66  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

Mich.     What  now? 

AuDR.  Say  you'll  forgive  me  before  I  tell  you  ! 
No,  don't  forgive  me  ! 

Mich.  I  don't  understand  you.  Is  anything  dis- 
covered ? 

AuDR.  What  does  that  matter?  Oh,  don't  hate 
me.  If  you  say  one  unkind  word  to  me  I  shall  kill 
myself.  Read  the  letter  which  came  here  to  me  just 
now.  (^He  takes  the  letter  wondef-ingly.) 

Mich.     Whom  did  it  come  from  ? 

AuDR.     My  husband. 

Mich.  Your  husband?  {She  nods.)  Your  hus- 
band !     He  is  alive  ?  {She  nods.) 

AuDR.  {with  a  laugh).  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  should 
ruin  you  body  and  soul?  {He  stands  overwhelmed.) 
Why  do  you  stand  there  ?  Why  don't  you  do  some- 
thing? {Laughing  at  him.)  I  say,  ghostly  father,  we 
make  a  pretty  pair,  you  and  I,  don't  we  ?  What  shall 
we  do  ?  Confess  in  white  sheets  and  candles  together, 
you  and  I  ?  Why  don't  you  do  something  —  {Laugh- 
ing at  hi7n.)  And  you  stand  there  like  a  stone  saint. 
{Comes  up  to  him.)    Kill  me  and  have  done  with  me  ! 

Mich.     You  said  your  husband  died  after  two  years. 

AuDR.  I  said  I  never  saw  him  again  —  alive.  I 
thought  then  that  I  never  should. 

Mich.  But  —  you  beheved  he  was  dead.  You 
believed  he  was  dead — {She  does  not  reply.)  You 
didn't  know  the  night  before  last  that  your  husband 
was  living? 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  67 

AuDR.  Don't  I  tell  you  to  kill  me  and  have  done 
with  it. 

Mich,  {horrified).     You  knew  he  was  living? 

AuDR.  {very  imploringly).  I  love  you,  I  love  you. 
Say  one  word  to  me  !  Say  one  word  to  me  !  Say 
you  forgive  me. 

Mich.  I  forgive  you.  {Stands  overwhelmed.)  Take 
this  letter (  Offering  it.) 

AuDR.  I  didn't  mean  to  do  this.  Do  make  ex- 
cuses for  me.  We  lived  unhappily  together.  When 
I  came  into  all  my  money  I  bargained  with  him  that 
we  would  never  see  each  other  again.  It  was  a  fair 
bargain  —  a  contract.  He  went  away  to  America  — 
I  gave  out  he  was  dead.  From  that  time  to  this  I 
have  never  had  a  thought  of  his  return.  He  was  dead 
to  me.  He  has  no  right  to  come  and  spoil  my  life. 
Read  that  letter  from  him. 

Mich.     No  —  take  it.         (  Gives  the  letter  back.) 

AuDR.     Tell  me  what  to  do. 

Mich.     I'm  not  fit  to  advise  you. 

AuDR.     What  can  we  do  ? 

Mich.  I  don't  know.  We're  in  a  blind  alley  with 
our  sin.     There's  no  way  out  of  this. 

AuDR.     I  shall  defy  him. 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.  Yes.  A  bargain's  a  bargain.  I  shall  go 
back  and  defy  him.  I'll  never  see  him  again.  But 
then  —  what  then  ?     What  will  you  do  ? 

Mich.     Don't  think  of  me. 


68  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

AuDR.  Speak  to  me.  Say  one  word.  Oh,  it  has 
been  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  so  many  times  to  tell 
you  all,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to  lose  your  love,  so  I 
deceived  you.  {He  walks  about  perplexed.  She  goes 
to  him  very  gently  and  coaxingly.)  Say  you  aren't 
sorry  —  say  that  deep  down  in  your  inmost  heart  you 
aren't  sorry  for  what  is  past ! 

Mich.  Sorry?  No.  God  forgive  me.  I'm  not 
sorry.     I  can't  be  sorry.     I  wish  I  could. 

AuDR.  {coming  to  hifn).  Ah,  now  I  know  you  love 
me  !     If  you  only  dare  be  as  bold  as  I  dare 

Mich.     Bold  ? 

AuDR.  We  love  each  other.  Our  loves  and  lives 
are  in  our  own  hands. 

Mich,  {repulses  her,  braces  himself  to  stern  resolve, 
very  coldly  and  commandingly) .  Listen  !  These  are 
perhaps  the  last  words  I  shall  ever  speak  to  you.  The 
past  is  past.  There's  no  way  out  of  that.  But  the 
future  is  in  our  power.  Can't  you  see,  woman,  that 
we  are  half-way  down  the  precipice?  We'll  go  no 
further.  From  this  moment  we  part ;  I  toil  back  to 
repentance  and  peace  one  way,  you  toil  back  another. 
So  far  as  God  will  give  me  grace  I'll  never  think  of 
you  from  this  moment  —  I'll  spend  all  my  Ufe  in  put- 
ting a  gulf  between  you  and  me.  You  do  the  same  — 
ask  only  one  thing  for  yourself  and  me,  that  we  may 
forget  each  other. 

AuDR.  {looks  at  him,  smiles,  sighs,  then  as  she  is 
going  off).     I  was  right  about  man's  love.     You  are 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  69 

all  cowards.  There's  not  one  of  you  that  doesn't 
think  first  of  his  comfort,  or  his  pocket,  or  his  honour, 
or  his  skin,  or  his  soul,  and  second  of  the  woman  he 
thinks  he  loves.  Forget  you?  (^A  little  laugh. ^  Do 
you  think  that  possible?  Do  you  think  I  was  jesting 
with  you  when  I  gave  myself  to  you  ?  Forget  you  ? 
(^  little  laugh.)  My  memory  is  good  for  such 
trifles.     Forget  you? 

Mich,  {with  a  wild  revulsion).  Oh,  take  me  where 
you  will !  I  have  no  guide  but  you  !  Heaven,  hell, 
wherever  you  go,  I  shall  follow.  Be  sure  of  that. 
But  won't  you  be  my  better  angel,  now  I've  lost  her : 
If  you  love  me  as  you  say,  you  can  yet  be  the  master 
influence  of  my  life,  you  can  yet  save  yourself  through 
me,  and  me  through  you.  Won't  you  make  our  love 
a  monument  for  good?  Dearest  of  all,  I'm  at  your 
feet  —  I  think  you  come  from  heaven,  and  I'm  all 
obedience  to  you.  You  are  my  angel.  Lead  me  — 
Lead  me,  not  back  to  sin  —  Lead  me  towards  heaven 

—  You  can  even  now  ! 

AuDR.     What  do  you  wish  me  to  do? 

Mich.  Go  back  to  your  duty  and  to  deep  repent- 
ance. Have  strength,  dearest.  These  are  not  idle 
words  —  duty,  purity,  holiness.  They  mean  some- 
thing. Love  is  nothing  without  them.  Have  courage 
to  tread  the  hard  road.     Leave  me. 

AuDR.     If  I  leave  you  now,  shall  we  meet  one  day 

—  hereafter  ? 
Mich.     Yes, 


70  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  iu 

AuDR.     You're  sure?    You  do  believe  it? 

Mich.     With  all  my  heart. 

AuDR.  And  you'll  stay  here  and  carry  on  your 
work,  restore  the  Minster,  and  let  me  think  that  I'm 
helping  you. 

Mich.     I  can't  do  that  now. 

AuDR.    Yes. 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.     Yes. 

Mich.     But  with  that  money  —  your  money  ! 

AuDR.  Many  churches  are  built  with  sinners'  money. 
Do  this  for  me. 

Mich.  If  I  dared  —  if  it  would  come  to  good.  — 
You  know  how  dear  a  hope  it  has  been  to  me  all  my 
life  through. 

AuDR.     Do  it,  because  I  ask  it.     You  will? 

Mich.  And  you'll  leave  me,  leave  this  place,  be- 
cause I  ask  it.     You  will  ? 

AuDR.     I  love  you.     I  obey  you. 

{She  comes  to  him^ 

Mich.     No,  I  daren't  come  near  to  you.    You'll  go? 
{He  opens  the  door ;  she  passes  out ;  re-enters.^ 

AuDR.  Listen  to  this.  Whatever  happens,  I  shall 
never  belong  to  anybody  but  you.  You  understand  ? 
(Michael  bows  his  head.)  I  shall  never  belong  to 
anybody  but  you,  Mike. 

{She  goes  out  again.  He  closes  door,  goes  up  to 
window.  She  passes.  He  watches  her  off, 
stays  there  some  moments. 


ACT  III        MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  71 

Jie-enfer  AtWREW.     Michael  comes  from  window ;  the 
two  men  stand  looking  at  each  other. 

Andr.  You  won't  begin  work  this  morning,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Mich,  {firmly).  Yes.  {Goes  to  table,  motions 
Andrew  to  otie  chair,  seats  himself  opposite.  They 
take  up  the  manuscripts^     Where  is  the  place  ? 

Andr.  Fifty-first  psahn,  verse  three.  (Michael 
winces,  turns  over  the  manuscript.')  Have  you  found 
it?     What  are  you  looking  at? 

Mich,  {gets  up  suddenly) .     I  can't  bear  it. 

Andr.     Can't  bear  what  ? 

(Michael  stands  looking  at  him  with  terror^ 

Andr.  {rises,  comes  to  him).  Don't  I  tell  you  that 
all  is  safe.     I  shan't  blab.     Nobody  shall  ever  know. 

Mich.     But  you  know  ! 

Andr.     I  shall  never  remind  you  of  it. 

Mich.  But  you  do,  you  do  !  Your  presence  re- 
minds me, 

Andr.  Shall  I  leave  you  now  and  come  again  by- 
and-by  ? 

Mich,  {with  an  effort).  No,  stay.  {Points  to  seat. 
Andrew  seats  himself.)  You've  sent  for  Rose  to 
come  home? 

Andr.     No. 

Mich.     No  ? 

Andr.  I  don't  want  to  have  her  in  this  place  where 
everybody  knows  about  her. 


72  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  hi 

Mich.  Won't  you  send  for  her,  Andrew  —  to  please 
me? 

Andr.  She's  well  enough  where  she  is.  {^Pointing 
to  the  manuscripts.)     Shall  we  go  on  ? 

Mich.     What  ought  I  to  do,  Andrew? 

Andr.     Don't  you  know  what  you  ought  to  do  ? 

Mich.     What  ? 

Andr.  Mete  out  to  yourself  the  same  measure  you 
meted  to  others. 

Mich.  Confess — in  public.  I  can't!  I  can't! 
I  daren't !  I'm  a  coward,  a  weak  miserable  coward  ! 
Don't  judge  me  harshly,  Andrew  !  Don't  be  hard  on 
me  I  {^Covering  his  face  with  his  hands  ^ 

Andr.  {cold,  firm).  Come,  sir!  shall  we  get  on 
with  our  work?  {Reading  manuscript.)  "For  I 
acknowledge  my  transgressions,  and  my  sin  is  ever 
before  me." 

(Michael  uncovers  his  face  and  sits  staring  at 
Andrew,  who  sits  cold  and  grim  on  the  other 
side  of  the  table.) 

'  Very  slow  curtain. 

{A  year  passes  betweeji  Acts  III.  and  IV^ 


ACT    IV 

Scene.  —  The  Chancel  of  the  Minster  church  of  Saint 
Decuman  at  Cleveheddon,  a  beautiful  building  of 
Decorated  Gothic  architecture  with  signs  of  recent 
restoration.  The  altar  and  reredos,  approached  by 
steps,  face  the  aicdience,  who  take  up  the  same  posi- 
tion towards  it  as  spectators  in  the  nave  would  do. 
Behind  the  altar  a  long  vista  of  columns,  arches, 
roof,  and  stained  glass  windotus.  An  organ  is  built 
in  left  wall  of  the  chancel  at  a  considerable  height. 
On  both  sides  of  the  chancel  are  handsome  high 
carved  oak  stalls.  A  large  open  place  in  front  of 
the  altar  steps  is  flanked  on  each  side  by  the  tran- 
septs, which  run  to  right  and  left  of  spectators  and 
are  filled  with  chair  seats  so  far  as  can  be  seen.  A 
small  door  in  the  7iorih  wall  of  the  left  transept 
leads  to  the  organ  loft.  The  whole  church  is  most 
lavishly  decorated  with  banners,  hangings,  scrolls, 
and  large  frescoes,  and  is  smothered  with  flowers  as 
if  in  readiness  for  a  church  festival.  Large  brass 
candlesticks  on  altar  with  lighted  candles.  Time, 
about  nine  on  an  autumn  night.  An  organ  volun- 
73 


74  MICHAEL   AND   HIS   LOST   ANGEL        act  iv 

tary  is  being  played  as  curtain  rises.  Enter  Michael 
from  transept.  He  has  aged  much,  is  very  pale  and 
emaciated.  The  voluntary  ceases  and  the  organ 
boy,  a  lad  about  fifteen,  comes  from  small  door  in 
wall  of  left  transept. 

Walter  {carelessly^.     Good-night,  sir. 
Mich,  {stopping  him,  puts  his  hand  on  the  bofs  head). 
Good-bye,  Walter.     {Pause,  still  detaining  him,  with 
considerable  feeling.)     Good-bye,  my  dear  lad. 

(Sighs,  moves  away  from  him.     The  boy  shows 
slight  respectful  surprise  and  exit  along  tran- 
sept.    The  Organist  ivith  keys  enters  from  the 
little  door,  looks  round  the  church  admiringly.) 
Organist.     Everything  ready  for  the  ceremony  to- 
morrow ? 

Mich.     Yes,  I  think,  everything. 
Organist.     I  was  just  putting  the  finishing  touches 
to  my  music.     How  beautiful  the  church  looks  !     You 
must  be  very  proud  and  happy  now  your  work  is 
complete. 

Mich.     Not  quite  complete.     I've  to  put  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  my  part  —  to-morrow. 

Andrew  enters  rather  suddenly  from  transept. 

Andr.     Can  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment  ? 
Organist.     Good-night.  {Going.) 

Mich,  {detains  him).    Thank  you  for  all  you  have 
done  for  me,  and  for  the  church,  and  for  her  services. 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  75 

{Shakes  hands  warmly.     Exit  the   Organist   by 
transept. ) 

Mich.     Well? 

Andr.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know  —  Mrs.  Lesden 
has  come  back  to  Cleveheddon,  and  she  has  brought 
a  lady  friend  with  her. 

Mich.     I  know. 

Andr.     You've  seen  her? 

(Michael  looks  at  him  ivith  great  dignity.) 

Andr.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Mich.     I've  not  seen  her. 

Andr.  I  beg  your  pardon.  It's  no  business  of 
mine.  ( Going.) 

Mich,  {quietly^ .    Yes,  it  is  business  of  yours. 

Andr.     What  do  you  mean? 

Mich.  Haven't  you  made  it  the  chief  business  of 
your  life  all  this  last  year? 

Andr.  How?  I've  kept  my  word.  I've  never 
reminded  you  of  it. 

Mich.  You've  never  allowed  me  to  forget  it  for  a 
single  moment.  Every  time  you've  spoken  to  me,  or 
looked  at  me,  or  crossed  the  room,  or  passed  the 
window,  every  time  I've  heard  your  step  on  the  stairs, 
or  your  voice  speaking  to  the  servants,  you've  accused 
me.  If  you  had  been  in  my  place  I  would  have  been 
very  kind  to  you,  Andrew. 

Andr.     How  did  you  treat  my  girl  ? 

Mich.  I  did  what  I  thought  was  best  for  her 
soul. 


76  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

Andr.     Then  why  don't  you  do  what  is  best  for 
your  own  soul  ? 
Mich.     I  shall. 
(Andrew  looks  at  Michael  in  startled  inquiry^ 

Enter  by  transept  Docwray  and  Sir  Lyolf.  Sir 
Lyolf  is  in  evening  dress  under  stimmer  over- 
coat. Docwray  points  out  the  decorations  to  Sir 
Lyolf. 

Andr.  Why  have  you  sent  for  Rose  to  come  back 
to  Cleveheddon? 

Mich.  I  wish  her  to  be  present  at  the  services  to- 
morrow. She  is  almost  due.  Go  to  the  station  and 
meet  her.     Bring  her  to  me  here. 

(Sir  Lyolf  and  Docwray  saunter  up  towards 
Michael    a7id    Andrew.       Andrew    stands 
perplexed.') 
Mich,  {firmly,  to  Andrew)  .     Bring  her  to  me  here. 
(Andrew  goes  off  through  transept,  turns  to  look 
at  Michael  before  he  goes  off.) 
Sir  Lyolf.     You  didn't  turn  up  at  dinner? 
Mich.     I  was  too  busy. 
Sir  Lyolf.     All  prepared  for  to-morrow? 
Mich.     Yes,  I  think. 

Sir  Lyolf.  So  it  seems  Mrs.  Lesden  has  come 
down  from  town. 

Mich.     So  I  understand. 

Sir  Lyolf  ( Michael  is  listening  intently) .  I  thought 
we  had  seen  the  last  of  her  when  the  long-lost  hus- 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL 


77 


band  returned  and  took  her  off  to  London.     By  the 
way,  what  has  become  of  her  husband  ?  , 

Mark.     He  has  gone  back  to  South  America. 

(Michael  is  listening  intently.) 

Sir  Lyolf.     Gone  back  to  South  America? 

Mark.  He  only  stayed  three  weeks  in  England. 
It  is  said  that  she  has  pensioned  him  off —  he  is  to 
keep  to  his  hemisphere,  and  she  is  to  keep  to  hers. 

Sir  Lyolf.     I  don't  like  it ! 

Mark.     Don't  like  what  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  don't  like  women  who  pension  off 
their  husbands  to  live  in  South  America. 

Mich.     Do  you  see  much  of  her  in  town  ? 

Mark.  Not  much.  About  every  two  months  she 
sweeps  into  church  in  a  whirlwind  of  finery  and  per- 
fume, gives  me  a  ridiculously  large  sum  for  the  offer- 
tory, makes  some  most  irreverent  joke,  or  else  pretends 
to  be  deeply  religious 

Mich.     Pretends  ? 

Mark.  What  can  it  be  but  pretence?  Look  at 
her  hfe  this  last  year. 

Mich.     What  of  it  ? 

Mark.  It  has  been  one  continual  round  of  gaiety 
and  excitement  except  when  she  was  ill. 

Mich.     She  has  been  ill  ? 

Mark.    Yes,  and  no  wonder. 

Mich.     Why  ? 

Mark.  She  goes  everywhere,  gives  the  most  extrav- 
agant parties,  mixes  with  the  fastest,  emptiest,  London 


78  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  iv 

set.     And  she  has  taken  for  her  companion  a  silly, 
flighty  little  woman,  Mrs.  Cantelo. 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  don't  like  it !  Why  has  she  come 
back  to  Cleveheddon  just  now  ? 

Mark.  To  be  present  at  the  dedication  service 
to-morrow,  I  suppose. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Michael 

Mich.     Well? 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  know  that  everybody  is  asking 
where  all  the  money  came  from  for  these  magnificent 
restorations  ? 

Mich.  It  was  sent  to  me  anonymously.  The  giver 
wishes  to  remain  unknown. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Yes  !  Yes  !  That's  what  you've  told 
us.     But  of  course  you  know  who  it  is  ? 

Mich.     I  mustn't  speak  of  it. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Forgive  me. 

Mich.  Let's  say  no  more.  I'm  glad  you  came 
here  to-night.  I've  been  very  much  perplexed  by  a 
confession  that  has  been  made  to  me  recently.  A 
priest  —  you  know  him,  Mark  —  he  is  to  be  present 
to-morrow  —  a  priest  some  time  ago  discovered  one 
of  his  people  in  a  course  of  lying  and  deception,  and 
insisted  upon  a  very  severe  penalty  from  the  man. 
And  now  the  priest  tells  me,  that  in  order  to  save  one ' 
very  dear  to  him,  he  himself  has  lately  been  practising 
exactly  the  same  course  of  lying  and  deception.  He 
came  to  me  for  advice.  I  said,  "  You  must  pay  ex- 
actly the  same  penalty  that  you  demanded  from  your 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL 


79 


parishioner."  But  he  objects  —  he  says  it  will  bring 
disgrace  on  his  family,  and  disgrace  on  our  cloth. 
He  urged  all  manner  of  excuses,  but  I  wouldn't  hsten 
to  him.  He  wishes  to  be  present  at  the  dedication 
service  to-morrow.  I've  refused  him.  Have  I  done 
right? 

Sir  Lyolf.     Yes,  I  should  say  so. 

Mark.    Was  it  a  just  penalty? 

Mich.  Yes,  I  believe  so  —  the  just,  the  only  pen- 
alty, in  my  opinion.     Have  I  done  right  ? 

Mark.    Yes,  certainly. 

Mich.  I'm  glad  you  both  think  that.  To-morrow 
before  the  dedication  service  begins,  I  shall  stand 
where  I'm  standing  now  and  confess  that  I  have  been 
guilty  of  deadly  sin  and  deceit.  Then  I  shall  go  out 
from  this  place  and  never  return. 

( They  come  away  from  him,  staring  at  him  in 
speechless  surprise  for  some  tfiotnetits.) 

Sir  Lyolf.  But  —  Good  Heaven  !  —  what  have  you 
done? 

Mich,  {after  a  long  pause) .     Guess. 

Sir  Lyolf.    But  you  won't  proclaim  yourself  ? 

Mich.     Yes. 

Sir  Lyolf.  But  your  career  —  your  reputation  — 
your  opportunities  of  doing  good 

Mark.  Have  you  thought  what  this  will  mean  to 
you,  to  us,  to  the  church? 

Mich.  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  for  many 
months  past. 


8o  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       ACT  rv 

Sir  Lyolf.  Surely  there  must  be  some  way  to 
avoid  a  public  declaration.  (Michael  shakes  his 
head.)  You  know  I  don't  speak  for  myself.  My 
day  is  nearly  done,  but  you're  in  the  full  vigour  of 
life,  with  a  great  reputation  to  sustain  and  increase. 
Don't  do  this  —  for  my  sake,  for  your  own  sake,  for 
the  sake  of  Heaven,  don't  do  it ! 

Mich.     I  must. 

Mark.    What  are  the  circumstances? 

Mich.  I  can't  tell  you.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you 
so  much  except  that  I  knew  I  might  trust  both  of 
you  never  to  hint  or  whisper  anything  against  — 
against  any  but  myself.  If  you  should  guess  —  as  most 
likely  you  will  —  the  name  of  my  companion  in  sin, 
it  will  never  cross  your  lips  ?     I  may  ask  that  of  you  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.    You  know  you  may. 

Mark.    Of  course  we  shall  say  nothing. 

Sir  Lyolf.  But  —  but {Si is  down  over- 
whelmed.) 

Mark.  Can't  we  talk  this  over  further  ?  Have  you 
considered  everything  ? 

Mich.  Everything.  I  have  known  for  many  months 
that  this  must  come.  I  have  tried  to  palter  and  spare 
myself,  but  each  time  the  conviction  has  returned 
with  greater  and  greater  force,  "  You  must  do  it  there, 
and  then,  and  in  that  way." 

Mark.    But  you've  repented? 

Mich.  Most  deeply.  I  have  fasted  and  prayed. 
I  have  worn  a  hair  shirt  close  to  my  skin.     But  my 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  8i 

sin  remains.  It  isn't  rooted  out  of  my  heart.  I  can't 
get  rid  of  its  image. 

]\Iark.    Its  image  ? 

Mich,  {satne  calm,  tranquil,  matter-of-fact  tone). 
I  believe  that  every  sin  has  its  exact  physical  image. 
That  just  as  man  is  the  expression  of  the  thought  of 
God,  so  our  own  thoughts  and  desires  and  aims,  both 
good  and  bad,  have  somewhere  or  the  other  their 
exact  material  counterpart,  their  embodiment.  The 
image  of  my  sin  is  a  reptile,  a  greyish-green  reptile, 
with  spikes,  and  cold  eyes  without  lids.  It's  more 
horrible  than  any  creature  that  was  ever  seen.  It 
comes  and  sits  in  my  heart  and  watches  me  with 
those  cold  eyes  that  never  shut,  and  never  sleep,  and 
never  pity.  At  first  it  came  only  very  seldom  ;  these 
last  few  months  it  has  scarcely  left  me  day  or  night, 
only  at  night  it's  deadher  and  more  distorted  and 
weighs  more  upon  me.  It's  not  fancy.  Mark,  I 
know,  I  know,  that  if  I  do  not  get  rid  of  my  sin,  my 
hell  will  be  to  have  that  thing  sitting  beside  me  for 
ever  and  ever,  watching  me  with  its  cold  eyes.  But 
{hopefully)  I  shall  be  rid  of  it  after  to-morrow. 

Mark.    My  poor  fellow  ! 

Sir  Lyolf  {rising,  coming  back  to  Michael). 
Michael,  can't  you  postpone  this?  Can't  it  be  at 
some  other  time  ?  Not  in  the  very  hour  which  should 
be  the  proudest  and  happiest  of  your  life  ? 

Mich.  There  is  no  other  hour,  no  other  way. 
{Looks  at  thetn  both,  takes  both  their  hands  affection- 


82  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

ately.)  Tell  me  {very  pifeously)  that  you  neither  of 
you  love  me  the  less,  —  or  at  least  say  that  you  love 
me  a  little  still,  after  what  I've  told  you. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Don't  you  know? 

Mark.     How  can  you  ask  that  ? 

Andrew  and  Rose  appear  in  the  transept. 
Mich,  (/t' Andrew).     One  moment,  Andrew.     {To 
his  father.')     I've  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  Andrew. 

Sir  Lyolf,  Come  and  stay  the  night  with  me  and 
let  us  talk  this  over. 

Mich.  No,  I  must  be  alone  to-night.  Good-night, 
dear  Mark.  (Mark  wrings  his  hand.) 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  are  resolved  to  go  through  with 
this?     It  must  be?  {Micoa^i.  bows  his  head.) 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  can't  be  here  to-morrow.  I  couldn't 
face  it.  But  {with  great  affection)  I  shan't  be  far 
away  when  you  want  me.  {Very  warm  handshake.) 
Come,  Mr.  Docwray. 

{Exeunt  Sir  Lyolf  and  Docwray  by  transept^ 
Andr.  {bringing  Rose  to  Michael).     I've  brought 
her. 

(Rose  is  in  an  Anglican  sister's  dress  ;  she  is  very 
pale  and  her  manner  is  subdued.  She  comes 
slowly  and  reverently  to  Michael,  and  is  going 
to  bend  to  him.  He  takes  her  hands  and 
raises  her.) 
Mich.  No.  You  mustn't  bend  to  me.  I've  sent 
for  you,  Rose,  to  ask  your  pardon. 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  83 

Rose.     My  pardon  ? 

Mich.  I  made  you  pass  through  a  terrible  ordeal 
last  year.     Will  you  forgive  me  ? 

Rose.  What  should  I  forgive?  You  were  right. 
You  said  it  would  bring  me  great  peace.  And  so  it 
has  —  great  peace. 

Mich.  And  you  wouldn't  undo  that  morning's 
work? 

Rose.  No.  It  seems  I  died  that  morning  and  left 
all  my  old  life  in  a  grave.  This  is  quite  a  new  life. 
I  wouldn't  change  it. 

Mich.     Andrew,  do  you  hear  that? 

Andr.     Yes. 

Mich.  I  was  right,  then  ?  I  was  right  ?  You  are 
happy  ? 

Rose.  Yes,  I  am  happy  —  at  least,  I'm  peaceful, 
and  peace  is  better  than  happiness,  isn't  it? 

Mich.  Yes,  peace  is  best !  Peace  is  best !  I  shall 
find  it  too,  some  day.  Andrew,  she  has  forgiven  me. 
Can't  you  forgive  me  ?  We  may  never  see  each  other 
again  on  this  side  the  grave.    Don't  let  us  part  in  anger  ! 

Andr.     Part  ? 

Mich.  As  soon  as  I  can  arrange  my  affairs  I  shall 
leave  Cleveheddon. 

Andr.     But  your  work? 

Mich.  My  work  is  ended.  I'll  see  that  you  and 
Rose  are  sufficiently  provided  for. 

{Taking  their  hands,  trying  to  join  them  ;  Andrew 
holds  aloof.) 


84  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

Andr.     No.     I  can't  take  any  favour  from  you. 

Mich.  It's  no  favour.  I've  trained  you  to  a  special 
work  which  has  unfitted  you  for  everything  else.  It 
is  my  duty  to  provide  for  your  old  age. 

Andr.     I  can't  take  any  favour  from  you. 

Mich,  Old  comrade  {leaning  on  Andrew's  shoul- 
der;  Andrew  draws  away),  old  comrade  {draws 
Andrew  to  him),  we  had  many  happy  days  together 
in  the  summer  of  our  life.  Now  the  autumn  has 
come,  now  the  winter  is  coming,  I'm  setting  out  on 
a  cold,  dark  journey.  Won't  you  light  a  little  flame 
in  our  old  lamp  of  friendship  to  cheer  me  on  my  way  ? 
You'll  take  my  gift  —  you'll  take  it,  and  make  a  home 
for  her? 

Andr.  {bursts  out).  You'll  break  my  heart  with 
your  kindness  !  I  don't  deserve  it !  I  was  a  half- 
bred,  starving  dog.  You  took  me  in,  and,  like  the 
hound  I  am,  I  turned  and  bit  the  hand  that  fed  me. 
Let  me  be  !     Let  me  be  ! 

Mich.     Rose,  speak  to  him. 

Rose.     Father,  you  are  grieving  Mr.  Feversham. 

Andr.  I'll  do  whatever  you  tell  me.  But  don't 
forgive  me. 

Mich.  Take  him  home.  Rose.  I  parted  you.  Let 
me  think  I  have  restored  you  to  each  other. 

{Joining  them. ) 

Andr.  {to  Michael).  I  can't  say  anything  to-night. 
I  never  was  good  enough  to  black  your  shoes.  I  can't 
thank  you.    I  can't  speak.    Good-night.    Come,  Rose  ! 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  85 

(Michael    shakes    Rose's    hand    very   tenderly. 
Exeunt    Rose    and    Andrew     by    transept. 
Michael  watches  them  off,  goes  to  altar.) 
Mich,  {alone).     One  thing  more  and  all  is  done. 
{Looking  round  the  church.)    And  I  must  give  you  up  ! 
Never  enter  your  doors,  never  lead  my  people  through 
you  in  chariots  of  fire,  never  make  you  the  very  pres- 
ence-chamber of  God  to  my  soul  and  their  souls  who 
were  committed  to  me !     Oh,  if  I  had  been  worthy  ! 
{^A  little  paiise.    A  woman's  laugh  is  heard  in  the 
transept  opposite  to  that  by  which  Andrew  and 
Rose  have  gone  off.     Michael  withdraws  to 
the  side  of  chancel,  where  he  is  seen  by  the 
audience,  duri7ig  the  following  scene,  but  is 
hidden  from  Audrie  and  Mrs.  Cantelo.) 

Audrie  enters  from  transept  in  magnificent  evening 
dress,  cloak,  and  jewellery,  and  carrying  a  large 
basket  of  roses.  Her  features  are  much  paler  and 
sharpened,  and  she  shows  a  constant  restlessness 
and  excitement. 

Audr.  ijooks  round,  calls  out) .  Somebody  is  here  ? 
{Pause,  calls  out.)  Somebody  is  here ?  No?  {Speaks 
down  transept.)     You  may  come  in,  Milly. 

Milly  Cantelo,  a  fashionable  little  woma?i,  enters  at 
transept,  looking  admiringly  round  the  church. 

Audr.  There's  nobody  here  except  {raising  her 
voice)  a  stone  saint  {^pointing  up  to  carved  figure) ,  and 


86  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL       act  iv 

he  can't  hear,  because  he  has  only  stone  ears,  and  he 
can't  feel,  because  he  has  only  a  stone  heart. 

(Michael  shows  intense  feeling.^ 

MiLLY  {looking  round) .     Isn't  it  gorgeous  ? 

AuDR.     H'm  —  yes {Raises  her  voice.)     I  can't 

bear  that  stone  saint.  Look  how  hard  and  lifeless  he 
is.  In  a  well-regulated  world  there  would  be  no  robm 
for  angels  or  devils,  or  stone  saints,  or  any  such  griffins. 

MiLLY.  Audrie,  you  are  queer  to-night.  You'll  be 
ill  again. 

AuDR.     I  hope  so. 

MiLLY.    What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

AuDR.  Life's  the  matter  with  me,  I  think.  I've 
got  it  badly,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  cure  myself. 

MiLLY.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  nonsense,  and  run 
about  on  silly  errands  in  the  dark. 

AuDR.  I  won't  for  long.  When  my  head  is  tightly 
bandaged  in  a  white  cloth,  I  can't  talk  any  more  non- 
sense, can  I?  And  when  my  feet  are  comfortably 
tucked  up  in  my  final  night-gown  I  can't  run  after 
stone  saints  in  the  dark,  can  I  ? 

MiLLY.  Oh,  you  give  me  the  creeps.  I  can't  imagine 
why  you  wanted  to  come  out  to-night. 

AuDR.     To  decorate  the  church. 

MiLLY.    Don't  you  think  it's  decorated  enough? 

AuDR.  {looking).  No,  it  wants  a  few  more  touches. 
I  must  just  titivate  a  cherub's  nose,  or  hang  a  garland 
on  an  apostle's  toe,  just  to  show  my  deep,  deep 
devotion 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  87 

MiLLY.   Your  deep,  deep  devotion? 

AuDR.  My  deep,  deep  love,  my  deep,  deep  wor- 
ship, my  deep,  deep  remembrance. 

MiLLY.    Of  what? 

AuDR.     The  church,  of  course. 

MiLLY.  What  a  heap  of  money  all  this  must  have 
cost !     Who  gave  it  all? 

AuDR.  I  gave  two  hundred  pounds  when  I  lived 
here  last  year. 

MiLLY.    I  wonder  who  gave  all  the  rest ! 

AuDR.     I  wonder  ! 

MiLLY.  Mr.  Feversham  must  have  some  very  de- 
voted friends. 

AuDR.     So  it  seems. 

MiLLY.  Did  you  know  him  very  well  when  you 
lived  here? 

AuDR.     Not  very  well. 

MiLLY.   What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  ? 

AuDR.  Oh,  a  very  cold,  distant  man  —  a  good  deal 
of  the  priest  about  him,  and  as  much  feeling  as  that 
stone  figure  up  there. 

MiLLY.    You  didn't  like  him  ? 

AuDR.  Oh,  I  Hked  him  well  enough.  But  I  don't 
think  he  cared  much  for  me.  I  dare  say  he  has  forgot- 
ten all  about  me  by  this  time.     Milly 

(^Bursts  into  tears.) 

MiLLY.   What  is  it  ? 

AuDR.  I'm  not  well  to-night.  I  oughtn't  to  have 
come  here.     Milly — I  never  forget  anybody.     If  I 


88  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

had  once  loved  you  I  should  love  you  for  ever.  If 
you  were  wicked,  or  unfortunate,  or  unfaithful,  it 
would  make  no  difiference  to  me.  Kiss  me,  Milly  — 
say  you  believe  me. 

Milly.   You  know  I  do,  darling. 
AuDR.  {very  passionately^ .     I  can  be  constant,  Milly 
—  I  can  !     Constant  in  my  friendship,  constant  in  my 
love  !     Oh,  Milly,  I'm  the  most  wretched  woman  in  the 
world  ! 

Milly.    You're  hysterical,  dear. 

AuDR.     No,  I'm  forsaken.     Nobody  loves  me  ! 

{Sobbing.     Gesture  from  Michael.) 
Milly.    Poor  Audrie  ! 

AuDR.     Let  me  be  a  few  minutes  by  myself.     I  want 
to  be  quite  alone.     Go  home  and  wait  for  me  there. 
Milly.    I  don't  like  leaving  you. 
AuDR.  {getting  her  off  at  transept^ .    Yes  —  go,  dear.  • 
I  shall  be  better  soon.     Do  leave  me. 
Milly.     You  won't  be  long  ? 
AuDR.     No  —  I'll  come  soon. 

{Accompanying  her  along  transept.    Exit  Milly  by 
transept.     Audrie  stands  listening.     Michael 
comes  forivard  a  step  or  two.) 
AuDR.  {in  the  transept) .     Are  you  there  ? 

{He  comes  forward ;  she  goes  towards  him  ;  they 
stand  for  a  moment  or  tivo  looking  at  each 
other.) 
AuDR.     Are  you  deaf?     I  thought  it  was  only  your 
memory  that  was  gone. 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  89 

Mich.     Why  have  you  come  here? 

AuDR.  Mayn't  I  come  into  my  own  church  ?  And 
such  a  sinner  as  I  am  ? 

Mich.  Forgive  me.  You  know  how  welcome  I 
would  make  you  —  if  I  dared. 

AuDR.  Then  you  don't  dare?  Then  I'm  not  wel- 
come? 

Mich,  {troubled^.  Yes!  Yes!  Very  welcome! 
The  Church  owes  much  to  you. 

AuDR.  I  think  she  does,  for  she  has  robbed  me  of 
your  love.  Why  have  you  sent  back  all  my  letters 
unopened  ? 

Mich.  Can't  you  guess  what  it  cost  me  to  return 
them?  {Pause.)  What  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
last  year? 

AuDR.  Doing?  Eating  my  heart.  Racing  through 
my  life  to  get  to  the  end  of  it.  Skipping  and  chatter- 
ing from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  the  Inferno  by  a  new 
short  cut.     What  have  you  been  doing  ? 

Mich.    Trying  to  repent  and  to  forget, 

AuDR.  Ah,  well  —  I  haven't  been  wasting  my  time 
quite  so  foolishly  as  you  after  all. 

Mich.     Will  you  never  be  serious? 

AuDR.     Yes  —  soon. 

Mich.     You've  been  ill? 

AuDR.  Oh,  my  dear  spiritual  doctor,  you  don't 
know  how  ill  I've  been.  I  get  up  every  morning 
without  hope,  I  drag  through  the  day  without  hope, 
I  go  to  this  thing  and  that,  to  this  party,  to  that  recep- 


go  MICHAEL  AND  HIS   LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

tion,  to  the  theatre,  to  church,  to  a  pigeon-shooting 
match,  to  the  park,  to  Ascot,  to  Henley  —  here,  there, 
everywhere,  all  without  hope. 

Mich.     What  is  it  you  want? 

AuDR.  I  want  to  live  again  !  I've  never  lived  but 
those  few  months  when  we  were  learning  to  love  each 
other  !  I  want  to  feel  that  fierce  breeze  on  my  cheek 
that  blew  us  together  !  Do  you  remember  when  we 
stood  on  the  cliff  hand  in  hand?  And  we  shrieked 
and  laughed  down  the  wind  like  mad  children?  Do 
you  remember? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.  No?  Nor  the  wonderful  pale  sunrise,  with 
the  lemon  and  green  lakes  of  Hght,  and  then  the  path 
of  diamonds  all  across  the  sea  ?     Don't  you  remember  ? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.  How  strange  you  don't  remember  !  Oh, 
my  God,  if  I  could  forget ! 

Mich,  (apart  from  her).  Oh,  my  God,  if  I  could 
forget !  (^A  long  pause.  He  comes  to  her.)  I  have 
one  awful  thought  —  I  am  bound  to  you  —  There 
is  but  one  of  us  —  I  never  felt  it  more  than  at  this 
moment  —  And  yet  the  awful  thought  comes  to  me 

—  if  by  any  decree  we  should  be  put  asunder  here- 
after—  if  we  should  be  parted  then  ! 

AuDR.  Don't  you  dread  being  parted  now  —  now 
this  moment?     Don't  you  dread  being  unhappy  here 

—  here  on  this  earth  ? 

Mich.     I  will  not  think  of  that.     I  have  vowed  ! 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  gi 

AuDR.  You  don't  love  me  !  You  don't  love  me  ! 
You  don't  love  me  ! 

Mich.  If  I  had  ten  thousand  worlds  I'd  sell  them 
all  and  buy  your  soul.  But  I  will  keep  the  vow  I  have 
vowed.  You  are  the  holiest  thing  on  earth  to  me. 
I  will  keep  you  white  and  stainless  from  me. 

AuDR.     You'll  never  forget  me. 

Mich.     I  have  forgotten  you. 

AuDR.     You'll  never  forget  me. 

Mich,  {same  cold  tone,  going  up  the  altar  steps) .  I 
have  forgotten  you. 

{Stands  with  his  back  to  her  for  a  few  moments.) 

AuDR.  {with  a  gesture  of  resignation) .  You'll  let 
me  put  a  bunch  or  two  of  flowers  about  the  church 
before  I  go? 

Mich.     If  I  asked  you  not 

AuDR.     I  should  obey  you. 

Mich.     I  do  ask  you  not 

AuDR.  Very  well.  It's  hard  lines  that  I  mayn't 
decorate  my  own  church. 

Mich.  I  have  another  request  to  make  —  a  favour 
to  beg  of  you. 

AuDR.  It's  done,  whatever  it  is.  But  make  it  some 
great  thing  —  something  very  hard  and  desperate,  that 
I  may  show  you  there's  nothing  I  would  not  do  if 
you  ask  it. 

Mich.  It's  something  very  simple.  I'm  going  to 
ask  you  not  to  be  present  at  the  dedication  service 
to-morrow. 


92               MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 
AuDR.     But  I  came  on  purpose 


Mich.  I  beg  you  not.  I  have  a  strong  reason. 
You  won't  come? 

AuDR.  Not  if  you  wish  me  to  stay  away.  Shall  I 
see  you  after  to-morrow  ? 

Mich.  After  to-morrow  I  leave  Cleveheddon  for 
ever. 

AuDR.     Where  are  you  going? 

Mich.     I  don't  know. 

AuDR.     It  doesn't  matter,  I  shall  find  you  out. 

Mich.     You'll  follow  me  ? 

AuDR.  Yes  —  all  over  this  world,  and  the  ten 
thousand  others.  I  shall  follow  you.  You'll  find  me 
always  with  you,  clawing  at  your  heart.  Au  revoir. 
(  Takes  up  her  basket  of  roses,  going  out  with  them  by 
transept,  stops.)  Do  let  me  put  some  flowers  on  the 
altar  —  just  to  remind  you.  Your  memory  is  so  bad, 
you  know. 

(^He  raises  his  hand  very  quietly  and  turns  his 
back  on  her.  She  stands  very  quiet  and  hope- 
less for  a  few  seconds,  then  takes  up  the  basket 
of  flowers,  goes  a  step  or  tivo  towards  transept, 
turns.) 

AuDR.  I'm  going  to  be  very  ill  after  this.  {He 
stands  at  altar  in  an  attitude  of  prayer,  his  back  to 
her.)  Do  you  hear,  I'm  going  to  be  very  ill  ?  There's 
a  little  string  in  my  heart  —  I've  just  heard  it  snap. 
{Pause.)  If  I  were  dying  and  I  sent  for  you,  would 
you  come  ? 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND  HIS   LOST  ANTGEL  93 

Mich,  (^after  a  long  pause,  very  quietly).     Yes. 

{^Pause.^ 
AuDR.  And  that's  all?  And  that's  all?  {He  stands 
unmoved  at  altar,  his  back  to  her.  She  takes  a  large 
red  rose  out  of  the  basket,  throws  it  towards  him  ;  it 
falls  on  the  white  marble  altar  steps.)  There's  a 
flower  for  to-morrow  !  Do  put  it  on  the  altar  for  me  ! 
You  won't?     You  won't?     {No  answer.)    It  is  hard  to 

be  turned  out  of  my  own  church  —  It  is  hard 

{^Exit  AuDRiE  by  transept  with  the  basket  of 
flowers.  A  sob  is  heard,  Michael  ttirns 
routid.  A  door  is  heai'd  to  close.  He  puts 
out  the  altar  lights,  throws  himself  on  altar 
steps.     The  curtains  fall. 

The  falling  of  the  curtains  signifies  the  passing  of 
the  night. 

A  peal  of  joyous  church  bells  folloiued  by  orgaji 
music  and  singing.  The  curtain  rises  and 
discovers  the  church  in  broad  daylight  and 
filled  with  worshippers.  Andrew  and  Rose 
are  at  the  corner  iti  prominent  positions.  Au- 
drie's  flower  is  lying  on  the  altar  steps.  A 
processional  hymn  is  being  sung.  A  proces- 
sion of  surpliced  priests  file  up  the  aisle  and 
take  their  places  in  the  chancel,  walking  over 
Audrie's  rose.  MxcnkVA.  follows  at  the  end  of 
the  procession ;  as  he  reaches  the  altar  steps, 
he  turns,  very  pale  and  cold,  and  speaks  in  a 
low,  calm  voice.) 


94  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  iv 

Mich.  Before  this  service  begins  and  this  church 
is  re-consecrated  I  have  a  duty  to  perform  to  my  peo- 
ple. {^Gitat  atte7iiion  of  all.)  I  have  often  insisted 
in  this  place  on  the  necessity  of  a  life  of  perfect  open- 
ness before  God  and  man.  I  have  taught  you  that 
your  lives  should  be  crystal  clear,  that  your  hearts 
should  be  filled  with  sunlight,  so  that  no  foul  thing  may 
hide  therein.  I  have  enforced  that  with  others,  be- 
cause I  believe  with  my  heart  and  soul  that  it  is  the 
foundation  of  all  wholesome  and  happy  human  life. 
I  stand  here  to  affirm  it  to-day  in  the  presence  of  God 
and  you  all.  I  stand  here  to  affirm  it  against  myself 
as  I  formerly  affirmed  it  against  another.  I  stand 
here  to  own  to  you  that  while  I  have  been  vainly 
preaching  to  you,  my  own  life  has  been  polluted 
with  deceit  and  with  deadly  sin.  I  can  find  no 
repentance  and  no  peace  till  I  have  freely  acknowl- 
edged to  you  all  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  continue  my 
sacred  office,  not  worthy  to  be  the  channel  of  grace  to 
you.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of  my  life  to  restore  this 
beautiful  temple,  and  to  be  Heaven's  vicar  here.  I 
have  raised  it  again,  but  I  may  not  enter.  I  dare  not 
enter.  I  have  sinned  —  as  David  sinned.  I  have 
broken  the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  vow.  It  is  my 
just  sentence  to  go  forth  from  you,  not  as  your  guide, 
your  leader,  your  priest ;  but  as  a  broken  sinner,  hum- 
bled in  the  dust  before  the  Heaven  he  has  offended. 
I  bid  you  all  farewell.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  having 
dared  to  continue  in  my  office  knowing  I  had  profaned 


ACT  IV        MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL  95 

and  desecrated  it.     It  now  remains  for  me  to  seek  the 
pardon  of  Heaven.     Let  the  service  continue  without 
me.     Let  no  one  leave  his  place.     Pray  for  me  all  of 
you  !     I  have  need  of  your  prayers  !     Pray  for  me  ! 
(^He  comes  down  from  the  altar  steps  amidst  the 
htished  and  respectful  surprise  of  the  congre- 
gation, 7vho  all  turn   to  look  at  him   as  he 
passes.     Rose  makes  a  very  slight  gesture  of 
sympathy  as  he  passes  her.     Andrew  stands 
with  hands  over  his  eyes.      Michael  passes 
out  by  transept,  his  head  bowed,  his  lips  mov- 
ing in  prayer  as  he  goes  off.) 

Curtain. 

(^Ten  months  pass  between  Acts  IV.  and  V.) 


ACT  V 

Scene.  —  Reception  room  of  the  Monastery  of  San 
Saivatore  at  Majano,  in  Italy.  A  simply  furnished 
room  in  an  old  Italian  building.  At  back  right  an 
open  door  approached  by  a  flight  of  steps,  at  back 
left  a  large  window  ;  a  mass  of  masonry  divides  the 
window  and  door.  A  door  down  stage,  left.  The 
portrait  of  Michael's  mother  hangs  on  the  wall. 
Time,  a  sicmmer  evening.  Discover  Father  Hilary 
reading.  Enter  Sir  Lyolf  up  the  steps  and  by  door 
at  back. 

Father  H.    Well? 

Sir  Lyolf.  I've  been  to  see  her  again.  I  can't 
get  her  out  of  my  mind. 

Father  H.    How  is  she  this  evening? 

Sir  Lyolf.  In  the  very  strangest  state,  laughing, 
crying,  jesting,  fainting,  and  chattering  like  a  magpie. 
I  believe  she's  dying. 

Father  H.    Dying? 

Sir  Lyolf.     Yes.     It    seems    she    had   a   kind   of 
malarial  fever  a  month  or  two  ago  and  wasn't  properly 
treated.     I  wish  there  was  a  good  English  doctor  in 
the  place.     And  I  wish  Michael  was  here. 
96 


ACT  V         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  97 

Father  H.    Be  thankful  that  he  is  away. 

Sir  Lyolf.  But  if  he  finds  out  that  she  has  been 
here,  that  she  has  sent  again  and  again  for  him,  and 
that  we  have  hidden  it  from  him  —  and  that  she  has 
died? 

Father  H.  He  mustn't  know  it  until  he  can  bear 
to  hear  it.  We  must  consider  him  first.  Think  what 
he  must  have  suffered  all  these  months.  Now  that 
at  last  he  is  learning  to  forget  her,  now  that  he  is  find- 
ing peace,  how  wrong,  how  cruel  it  would  be  to  re- 
open his  wounds  ! 

Sir  Lyolf.  She  said  he  promised  to  come  to  her  if 
she  sent  for  him.  She  begged  so  hard.  She  has 
come  from  England  with  the  one  hope  of  seeing  him. 
I  felt  all  the  while  that  I  was  helping  to  crush  the  Hfe 
out  of  her. 

Father  H.    What  did  you  tell  her? 

Sir  Lyolf.  That  he  had  gone  away  alone  for  a  few 
days  in  the  mountains.  That  we  didn't  exactly  know 
where  to  find  him,  but  that  he  might  come  back  at 
any  time,  and  that  I  would  bring  him  to  her  the 
moment  he  returned. 

Father  H.    Well,  what  more  can  we  do  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.  Nothing  now,  I  suppose.  I  wish  we 
had  sent  after  him  when  she  came  last  week.  We 
could  have  found  him  before  this.  Besides,  she 
doesn't  believe  me. 

Father  H.    Doesn't  believe  you? 

Sir  Lyolf.     She  thinks  that  Michael  is   here  with 


98  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act    v 

US,  and  that  we  are  hiding  it  from  him.     I  wish  he'd 
come  back. 

Father  H.  If  she  is  passing  away,  better  it  should 
all  be  over  before  he  returns. 

Sir  Lyolf.  I  don't  like  parting  them  at  the  last. 
She  loves  him,  Ned,  she  loves  him. 

Father  H.    Remember  it's  a  guilty  love. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Yes,  I  know. 

Father  H.  Remember  what  it  has  already  cost 
him. 

Sir  Lyolf.  Yes,  I  know.  But  love  is  love,  and 
whether  it  comes  from  heaven,  or  whether  it  comes 
from  the  other  place,  there's  no  escaping  it.  I 
believe  it  always  comes  from  heaven  ! 

(Father  Hilary  shakes  his  head.) 

Sir  Lyolf.  I'm  getting  my  morals  mixed  up  in  my 
old  age,  I  suppose.  But,  by  God,  she  loves  him,  Ned, 
she  loves  him  —  Who's  that? 

(Father  Hilary  looks  out  of  windotv,  makes  a 
motion  of  silence.) 

Father  H.    Hush  !     He's  come  back. 

Sir  Lyolf.     I  must  tell  him. 

Father  H.  Let  us  sound  him  first,  and  see  what 
his  feelings  are.  Then  we  can  judge  whether  it  will 
be  wise  to  let  him  know. 

Enter  up  steps  and  by  door  Michael  in  a  travel- 
ling cloak.  He  enters  very  listlessly.  He  has 
an  expression  of  settled  pensiveness   and   resigna- 


ACTV         MICHAEL   AND   HIS   LOST  ANGEL  99 

tion,  almost  despair.  He  comes  up  very  affection- 
ately to  his  father,  shakes  hands,  does  the  same 
to  Father  Hilary.  21ien  he  sits  down  without 
speakifig. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Have  you  come  far  to-day,  Michael  ? 

Mich.  No,  only  from  Casalta.  I  stayed  there  last 
night. 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  are  back  rather  sooner  than  you 
expected? 

Mich.  I  had  nothing  to  keep  me  away.  One  place 
is  the  same  as  another. 

Father  H.  And  about  the  future  ?  Have  you  made 
up  your  mind? 

Mich.  Yes.  I  had  really  decided  before  I  went 
away,  but  I  wanted  this  week  alone  to  be  quite  sure  of 
myself,  to  be  quite  sure  that  I  was  right  in  taking  this 
final  step,  and  that  I  should  never  draw  back.  {To 
Father  Hilary.)  You  remember  at  Saint  Decuman's 
Isle,  two  years  ago,  you  said  you  could  give  me  a 
deeper  peace  than  I  could  find  within  or  around  me  ? 

Father  H.    And  I  can.     And  I  will. 

Mich.  Give  me  that  peace.  I  need  it.  When  can 
I  be  received? 

Father  H.     When  I  have  prepared  you. 

Mich.  Let  it  be  soon.  Let  it  be  soon.  ( To  his 
father.)     This  is  a  blow  to  you 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  know  best.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  your  way  to  stay  in  your  own  church. 


loo  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  v 

Mich.  I  was  an  unfaithful  steward  and  a  diso- 
bedient son  to  her.  She  is  well  rid  of  me.  {To 
Father  Hilary.)  You  are  sure  you  can  give  me  that 
peace 

Father  H.  If  you'll  but  give  me  your  will  entirely, 
and  let  me  break  it  in  pieces.  On  no  other  condition. 
Come  and  talk  to  me  alone. 

{^Trying  to  lead  him  off  left.  ^ 

Sir  Lyolf.  No  —  !  ( Goes  to  Michael.)  Michael, 
you  are  at  peace  now,  aren't  you? 

(Michael  looks  at  him.) 

Father  H.     He  will  be  soon.     Leave  him  to  me. 

Sir  Lyolf.  No.  I  must  know  the  truth  from 
him. 

Father  H.     You're  wrong  to  torture  him. 

Sir  Lyolf  {to  Michael).  You  are  at  peace  now  — 
at  least,  you  are  gaining  peace,  you  are  forgetting  the 
past? 

Father  H.  He  will.  He  shall.  Say  no  more. 
{To  Michael.)     Come  with  me,  —  I  insist ! 

Sir  Lyolf.  No.  Michael,  before  you  take  this  last 
step  answer  me  one  question  —  I  have  a  reason  for 
asking.  Tell  me  this  truly.  If  by  any  chance  someone 
in  England  —  someone  who  was  dear  to  you 

Mich.  Oh,  don't  speak  of  her —  {Turns  away, 
hides  his  head  for  a  minute,  turns  round  with  a  sudden 
outburst.)  Yes,  speak  of  her !  Speak  of  her !  I 
haven't  heard  her  name  for  so  long  !  Let  me  hear  it 
again  —  Audrie  !     Audrie  ! 


ACT  V         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  loi 

Father  H.  {sternly  to  Sir  Lyolf).  Do  you  hear? 
Let  him  alone.  Don't  torment  him  by  dragging  up 
the  past.     He  has  buried  it. 

Mich.  No !  No !  No !  Why  should  I  deceive 
you?  Why  should  I  deceive  myself?  All  this  pre- 
tended peace  is  no  peace  !  There  is  no  peace  for  me 
without  her,  either  in  this  world  or  the  next  ! 

Father  H.    Hush  !  Hush  !  How  dare  you  speak  so  ! 

Mich.  I  must.  The  live  agony  of  speech  is  better 
than  the  dead  agony  of  silence,  the  eternal  days  and 
nights  without  her  !  Forget  her  ?  I  can't  forget ! 
Look  !  {Takes  out  a  faded  red  rose.) 

Sir  Lyolf.     What  is  it  ? 

Mich.  A  flower  she  threw  me  in  church  the  last 
time  I  saw  her.  And  I  wouldn't  take  it !  I  sent  her 
away  !  I  sent  her  away  !  And  her  flower  was  tram- 
pled on.  The  next  night  I  got  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  and  went  over  to  the  church  and  found  it  on 
the  altar  steps.  I've  kept  it  ever  since.  {To  his 
father.)  Talk  to  me  about  her.  I  want  somebody 
to  talk  to  me  about  her.  Tell  me  something  you  re- 
member of  her  —  some  little  speech  of  hers.  —  Do  talk 
to  me  about  her. 

Sir  Lyolf.     My  poor  fellow  ! 

Mich.  I  can't  forget.  The  past  is  always  with  me  ! 
I  live  in  it.  It's  my  life.  You  think  I'm  here  in  this 
place  with  you  —  I've  never  been  here.  I'm  living 
with  her  two  years  ago.  I  have  no  present,  no  future. 
I've  only  the  past  when  she  was  with  me.     Give  me 

UBRAHY 
■JjTt  TKACHETRS  r 


I02  MICHAEL  AND   HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  v 

the  past !  Oh  !  give  me  back  only  one  moment  of 
that  past,  one  look,  one  word  from  her  —  and  then 
take  all  that  remains  of  me  and  do  what  you  like  with 
it.     Oh!  i^Goes  back  to  bench,  sits. ^ 

Sir  Lyolf  {to  Father  Hilary).  You  see  !  I  must 
tell  him 

Father  H.  No,  not  while  he's  in  this  mad  state. 
Let's  quiet  him  first. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Then  we'll  take  him  to  her  ! 

Father  H.     When  he  is  calmer. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Take  care  it  isn't  too  late. 

Father  H.  {goes  to  Michael,  puts  his  hand  on 
Michael's  shoulder).  This  is  weakness.  Be  more 
brave  !     Control  yourself ! 

Mich.  Have  I  not  controlled  myself  ?  Who  trained 
and  guided  himself  with  more  care  than  I?  Who 
worked  as  I  worked,  prayed  as  I  prayed,  kept  watch 
over  himself,  denied  himself,  sacrificed  himself  as  I 
did?  And  to  what  end?  Who  had  higlier  aims  and 
resolves  than  I  ?  They  were  as  high  as  heaven,  and 
they've  tumbled  all  round  me  !  Look  at  my  life, 
the  inconsequence,  the  inconsistency,  the  futility,  the 
foolishness  of  it  all.  What  a  patchwork  of  glory  and 
shame!  Control  myself  ?  Why?  Let  me  alone!  Let 
me  drift!  What  does  it  matter  where  I  go?  I'm 
lost  in  the  dark  !  One  way  is  as  good  as  another  ! 
{The  vesper  bell  heard  off  at  some  little  distance.) 

Father  H.  You've  wandered  away  from  the  road, 
and   now  you  complain  that  the  maps   are   wrong. 


ACT  V         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  103 

Get  back  to  the  highway,  and  you'll   find    that   the 
maps  are  right. 

Mich.  Forgive  me,  Uncle  Ned  —  I'm  ashamed  of 
this.  I  shall  get  over  it.  I'll  talk  with  you  by  and  by. 
I  will  submit  myself.  I  will  be  ruled.  Father,  come 
to  me.  You  nursed  me  yourself  night  after  night 
when  I  was  delirious  with  the  fever.  I  was  a  child 
then.  I'm  a  child  now.  Talk  to  me  about  her.  Talk 
to  me  about  Audrie  ! 

(Audrie's  face,  wasted  and  hectic,  appears  just 
over  the  doorstep,  coining  up  the  steps  at  back  ; 
during  the  following  conversation  she  raises 
herself  very  slowly  and  with  great  diffictdty  up 
the  steps,  leanifig  on  the  wall.) 

Mich.  I've  heard  nothing  of  her.  Where  do  you 
think  she  is?  In  England?  I  think  I  could  be 
patient,  I  think  I  could  bear  my  life  if  I  knew  for 
certain  that  all  was  well  with  her.  If  I  could  know 
that  she  is  happy  —  No,  she  isn't  happy  —  I  know  that. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Michael,  I've  had  some  news  of  her. 

Mich.     News!     Good?     Bad?     Quick!     Tell  me. 

Sir  Lyolf.     You  can  bear  it  ? 

Mich.  She's  dead  ?  And  I  never  went  to  her  !  I 
never  went  to  her  !     She  won't  forgive  me  ! 

Sir  Lyolf.     She's  not  dead. 

Mich.     What  then  ? 

Sir  Lyolf.  You  promised  you'd  go  to  her  if  she 
sent  for  you. 

Mich.    Yes. 


I04  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL         act  v 

Sir  Lyolf.  She  has  sent  for  you.  (Sees  her  enter- 
ing.) 

Mich.     She's  dying? 

{She  has  gained  the  door,  just  enters,  leaning  back 
against  the  post.     Michael's  back  is  towards 
her.) 
AuDR.     I'm  afraid  I  am. 

(Michael  looks  at  her,  utters  a  wild  cry  of  joy, 
then  looks  at  her  more  closely,  realizes  she  is 
dying,  goes  to  her,  kisses  her,  bursts  into  sobs.) 
AuDR.  {putting  her  hand  on  his  head).     Don't  cry. 
I'm  past  crying  for.    Help  me  there.    {Points  to  seat.) 
{He  seats  her ;  looks  at  her  with  great  anxiety ^ 
AuDR.  {laughing,   a   little   weak  feeble  laugh,  and 
speaking  feebly  with  pause  between  each  word).    Don't 
pull  —  that  —  long  —  face.   You'll  —  make  me  —  laugh 
—  if  you  —  do.     And  I  want  to  be  —  serious  now. 
Mich.     But  you're  dying  ! 

AuDR.  {with  a  sigh).  Yes.  Can't  help  it.  Sir 
Lyolf,  pay — coachman — {taking  out  purse  feebly) 
outside  —  No,  perhaps  —  better  —  wait  —  or  bring 
another  sort  —  of — carriage.  But  no  mutes  —  no 
feathers  —  no  mummery. 

Sir  Lyolf.  I'll  send  him  away.  You'll  stay  with 
us  now  ? 

AuDR.  {nods).  So  sorry — to  intrude.  Won't  be 
very  long  about  it. 

{Exit  Sir  Lyolf  by  door  and  steps ;  Michael  is 
standing  with  hands  over  eyes.) 


ACT  V         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  105 

Father  H.  {coming  to  Audrie)  .  Can  I  be  of  any 
service,  any  comfort  to  you? 

AuDR.  No,  thanks.  I've  been  dreadfully  wicked  — 
doesn't  much  —  matter,  eh  ?  Can't  help  it  now. 
Haven't  strength  to  feel  sorry.  So  sorry  I  can't  feel 
sorry. 

Father  H.    There  is  forgiveness 

AuDR.  Yes,  I  know.  Not  now.  Want  to  be  with 
him.  {Indicating  Michael.) 

Sir  Lvolf  re-enters  by  steps. 

Sir  Lyolf.     Come,  Ned 

AuDR.  {to  Father  Hilary).  Come  back  again  — 
in — few  minutes.  I  shall  want  you.  I've  been  dread- 
fully wicked.  But  I've  built  a  church  —  and —  {fever- 
ishly) I've  loved  him  —  with  all  my  heart  —  and  a 
little  bit  over. 

{Exeunt  Sir  Lyolf  and  Father  Hilary,  door 
left) 

AuDR.  {^motioning  Michael)  .  Why  didn't  you  come 
when  I  sent  for  you? 

Mich.  I've  only  known  this  moment.  Why  didn't 
you  send  before  ? 

AuDR.  I  sent  you  hundreds  —  of  messages  —  from 
my  heart  of  hearts.     Didn't  you  get  them  ? 

Mich.     Yes  —  every  one. 

AuDR.  I've  crawled  all  over  Europe  after  you. 
And  you  aren't  worth  it  —  Yes,  you  are.  You 
wouldn't  come 


lo6  MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL        act  v 

Mich.  Yes  —  anywhere  —  anywhere  —  take  me 
where  you  will. 

AuDR.     You  know  —  he's  dead.     I'm  free. 

Mich.     Is  it  so?     But  it's  too  late. 

AuDR.  Yes.  Pity !  Not  quite  a  well-arranged 
world,  is  it  ?     Hold  my  hand.    We're  not  to  be  parted  ? 

Mich.     No. 

AuDR.     Sure  ? 

Mich.     Quite  sure.     You're  suffering? 

AuDR.  No  —  that's  past  —  {Shuts  her  eyes.  He 
watches  her.)  Very  comfortable  —  very  happy  —  just 
like  going  into  a  delicious  faint  —  (Sighs.)  Do  you 
remember  —  beautiful  sunrise  —  diamonds  on  the 
sea 

Mich.  Yes,  I  remember  —  all  —  every  moment ! 
And  the  wind  that  blew  us  together  when  we  stood  on 
the  cliff !  Oh  !  we  were  happy  then  —  I  remember 
all !     All  !     All ! 

AuDR.  So  glad  your  memory's  good  at  last.  (A 
vesper  hymn  heard  off  at  some  distance.)  Pity  to  die 
on  such  a  lovely  evening  —  not  quite  well-arranged 
world?  But  we  were  happy  —  if  the  next  world  has 
anything  as  good  it  won't  be  much  amiss.  I'm  going. 
Fetch  —  priest  —  (Michael  is  going  to  door  left;  she 
calls  him  back.)  No.  No  time  to  waste.  Don't 
leave  me.     We  shan't  be  parted  ? 

Mich.     No !     No !     No !     No ! 

AuDR.  {gives  a  deep  sigh  of  content,  then  looks  up  at 
his  mother's  picture).    She's  there?    (Michael  w^dl'.f.) 


ACT  V         MICHAEL  AND  HIS  LOST  ANGEL  107 

She'll  forgive  me  !     (^Blows  a  little  kiss  to  the  picture.') 

But  I'm  your  angel  —  I'm  leading  you 

Mich.     Yes.     Where  ? 

AuDR.  I  don't  know.  Don't  fuss  about  it.  "Lebon 
Dieu  nous  pardonnera  :  c'est  son  metier  "  —  (  Closes 
her  eyes.)  Not  parted?  {Looks  up  at  him.) 
Mich.  No  !  No !  No !  No ! 
AuDR,  You  won't  keep  me  waiting  too  long? 
{Looks  up  at  him,  a  long  deep  sigh  of  content.)  Hold 
my  hand  —  Tight!  tight!  Oh!  don't  look  so  sol- 
emn  

{Begins  to  laugh,  a  ripple  of  bright,  feeble  laugh- 
ter, growing  louder  and  stronger,  a  little  out- 
burst, then  a  sudden  stop,  as  she  drops  dead. 
Michael  kisses  her  lips,  her  face,  her  hands, 
her  dress.) 

Enter  Father  Hilary. 

Mich.  Take  me  !  I  give  my  life,  my  will,  my  soul, 
to  you  !  Do  what  you  please  with  me  !  I'll  believe 
all,  do  all,  suffer  all  —  only  —  only  persuade  me  that 
I  shall  meet  her  again  ! 

{Throws  himself  on  her  body.) 

Curtain. 


75  17         4 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara  College  Library 
Santa  Barbara,  California 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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